


putting off the inevitable

by dirtbagtrashcat



Series: night & day [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Study, Chocobros - Freeform, Fix-It, M/M, Promptis - Freeform, Time Travel, but he mostly uses it to run away from his problems, ffxv spoilers obviously, noct visiting past lucis, outsider perspective on time hijinks, with prompto slooowly piecing it together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtbagtrashcat/pseuds/dirtbagtrashcat
Summary: Prompto crunches the numbers and makes a few split-second decisions. Unfortunately, by the time that he very maturely decides to give his friend space, he’s already sitting on the edge of Noct’s bed. What can he say? Moving faster than the speed of thought is his gift and his curse.Cursing his catlike reflexes, Prompto cocks his head and grins, as though he hasn’t noticed the prince’s red-rimmed eyes.“Hey buddy,” he says, guileless. "So, what, did Ifrit freeze solid? Did Ramuh take a new gig as the god of sunny sundays? Is time flowing backwards or what?”Weirdly, that last one seems to freak Noct out. “What?” he says sharply, drawing back. “What are you even talking about?”“Uhh, duh, dude,obviously the laws of physics must be coming undone. In all the years I've known you, have you literally ever woken up before me?”“Oh,” Noct says, and for no reason that Prompto can make sense of, he relaxes. “Yeah. I guess I, uh. Couldn’t sleep.”_____Just a funky little fix-it where future-Noct visits several key moments in past Lucis and Prompto slooowly starts to piece it all together.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Series: night & day [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195688
Comments: 90
Kudos: 149





	1. the cape

From the moment he wakes up, Prompto can tell that something is wrong.

It’s their first night sleeping in a real bed in weeks. It’s been a long, bloody, _miserable_ slog, but they’ve finally washed their hands of the Vesperpool and its endless flock of cockatrice. (It figures they had to swing through in the spring, when the ornery bastards are nesting. Prompto never wants to see another chickatrice for as long as he lives). After making a quick stop in Lestallum, they’re back at Cape Caem, steeling themselves for what may either be a wedding or a funeral, depending on the Leviathan’s mood.

The guys are _exhausted_ , emotionally and otherwise. Without Gladio around to crack wise, Prompto’s had to carry the team’s morale on his back for the past two weeks. Of course, on the battlefield, Noct had it even worse. Prompto’s pretty sure Iggy was having one long panic attack the entire time they were underground. (Iggy thinks he hides it well and he _does_ , he definitely does, well enough that Noct or Gladio would never notice. But this is not Prompto’s first rodeo. He might not be a prince or a tank or a gourmet-chef-slash-tactical-genius, but he knows a thing or two about hiding your feelings.)

By the time they stagger out of Steyliff Grove and back into the pissing drizzle that permanently hangs over the Vesperpool, Iggy’s anxiety is seeping into Noct’s mood, and Noct’s resulting surliness has jumpstarted Prompto’s insecurity, and Prompto’s desperate attempts to (over-)compensate only feed Iggy’s panic. They hold it together, of course, partly because they’re an incredible team but mostly because they don’t have a choice. Still, by the time they pull up to Cape Caem, Prompto feels ready to sleep for a year — which means that Noct’s gonna want at least six.

Sure enough, when they get to the safehouse, Noct swears up and down that whoever wakes him will be thrown overboard halfway between here and Altissia. Iggy’s so run down that he doesn’t even argue.

“I believe we could all use a slow morning,” he sighs, even though Prompto suspects that Iggy’s idea of a “slow morning” means waking up at seven instead of six and only making two courses for breakfast. “Let us abstain from setting any alarms, and permit ourselves a bit of much-needed respite.”

“Wow, you guys really fell apart without me, huh?” Gladio asks cheerfully. Noct just glares at him. “Geez, tough crowd. Don’t worry, princess, you’ll get your beauty sleep.”

“I’d better,” Noct growls. Then he slouches up the stairs and disappears into the bedroom.

###

When Prompto wakes up, daylight is pouring in through the window. He can’t remember the last time he slept this late. Prompto’s always slept restlessly, in fits and starts punctuated by periods of jittery wakefulness, but it seems like he’s finally learned the secret to a sound night’s sleep. All along, all he had to do was fling his battered body at several dozen raging cockatrice, a legion of demons, and a literal fucking dragon! If he’d known _that_ , he could’ve been sleeping like a baby years ago.

Stifling a snicker, he yawns and stretches as quietly as he can. Prompto’s _pretty_ sure Noct was kidding about all that walk-the-plank stuff, but he’s not quite sure enough to tempt fate. But when he cracks an eyelid to squint at the inert blanket pile formerly known as Noctis, he almost falls out of his bed.

Noct is _awake_. Even though he’s tucked warm and cozy in a bonafide bed; even though he’s got the world record for Most Hours Consecutively Slept, and even though they’ve just pulled through one of the most exhausting weeks of their young lives, Noct’s eyes are wide open, and he’s looking right at Prompto.

Terror jolts through him. Did he… did he do something annoying, or something? Was he crying in his sleep again? But that doesn’t make sense, because Noct can sleep through _anything_. Most days, Gladio has to pry him out of bed by literally picking up the bottom of his sleeping bag and hoisting it up until Noct’s limp body slides out. Half the time, he even sleeps through _that_.

“S—sorry,” Prompto says, scratchy and low. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Huh?” Noct says, looking bewildered. And that’s the weirdest part: Noct doesn’t look mad.

On a normal day, Noct spends the first hour after waking mad as a wet cat, casting murderous glares in all directions until he’s been tamed with a hot meal and fresh coffee. Right now, though, he doesn’t look grumpy at all. To the contrary, he looks — Prompto squints at him, blinks sleep from his eyes. Huh. Noct looks weirdly intense, and maybe even kind of sad, like… wait. Has he been _crying_?

Prompto’s awake in an instant. He crunches the numbers: _Noct needs me — but Noct hates for anyone to see his “weakness” — but he’s been crying!!_ — and makes a few split-second decisions. Unfortunately, by the time that he very maturely decides to give his friend space, he’s already sitting on the edge of Noct’s bed. What can he say? Moving faster than the speed of thought is his gift and his curse.

Cursing his catlike reflexes, Prompto cocks his head and grins, as though he hasn’t noticed the prince’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Hey buddy,” he says, guileless. "So, what, did Ifrit freeze solid? Did Ramuh take a new gig as the god of sunny sundays? Is time flowing backwards or what?”

Weirdly, that last one seems to freak Noct out. Prompto can see the blanket pile shudder as he flinches.

“What?” Noct says sharply, drawing back. “What are you even talking about?”

“Uhh, duh, dude, _ob_ viously the laws of physics must be coming undone. In all the years I've known you, have you literally ever woken up before me?”

“Oh,” Noct says, and for no reason that Prompto can make sense of, he relaxes. “Yeah. I guess I, uh. Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you’re saying the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, and the Titan’s actually made of paper mache?”

“Yeah,” Noct deadpans, rolling his eyes. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Hey, as long as we get to sleep in a bed and stay down past sunrise, I’ve got no complaints.”

Noct snorts at him, and Prompto feels the tension bleed from his shoulders. Against his better judgment, he hears himself add, “um — you good, dude? I’m not trying to be lame,” he’s quick to clarify. “I just mean — _you_ , not sleeping? It just ain’t right.”

“You’ve got that right,” Noct snorts. His eyes flick away as he adds, “but I’m okay. Really.”

Silence stretches between them, but Prompto’s known Noct long enough to know when the prince is finished saying his piece, and when he’s still searching for the right words. Sure enough, a half a minute later, Noct’s mouth twists.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “As long as we’re being lame—”

“I specifically _wasn’t_ trying to be lame,” Prompto cuts in, because as desperate as he is to hear what Noct has to say, he’s not just gonna take that lying down.

“Yeah, and look how that turned out for you,” Noct snorts, leaving Prompto to gasp and clutch his pearls. “No, but seriously, um… I just mean, uh… You know I, like…” He scowls and shakes off some of the blankets so he can sit up a little straighter. “Look,” he snaps. “You’re my best friend, okay? You’re here because I want you around, right?”

“I thought I was here for the complimentary breakfast.”

“Will you shut up for a second? I just mean—” Noct frowns. “This is gonna sound stupid, but if anything happened that made you think I _didn’t_ want you here, I’m — it’s — you’d know there was something going on, right? You wouldn’t just be like, _oh, wow, the truth finally comes out_.”

“Sure,” Prompto says easily, even though he’s not sure if it’s true exactly. He knows that Noct likes to spend time with him, obviously, or else he just wouldn’t. But he’s pretty sure he could live a hundred years and still be listening to the bastard voice in his head that tells him that everyone would be better off without him. Still, it’s clear that Noct needs to hear it. “Did you, um…” Prompto weighs his options and decides to chance it. “Did you have a nightmare or something?”

“Yeah,” Noct confirms, sounding relieved. “Yeah. I had a — really, _really_ vivid nightmare.”

“Well, you can tell dream-Prompto that real-Prompto tells him to suck it,” Prompto says cheerfully. “And to have a little faith, for Shiva’s sake.”

That wins him his favorite of Noct’s laughs, the rare, snorting chortle that slips past Noct’s rigid self-control before he has time to clamp it down.

“Joke’s on you,” Noct tells him drily. “I’m pretty sure that guy could kick your ass.”

###

They’re supposed to set out for Altissia as soon as everyone’s up. But Noct points out that they finally picked up that supercharger for Cindy and really, it’d just be rude to leave town without forking it over.

“Mightn’t you have remembered as much _before_ we reached our destination?” Ignis gripes, but there’s no heat in it. He’s been in high spirits since Gladio got back and restored his place as Team Mom, relieving him from his stint as Team Single Parent Who’s Having A Breakdown.

“I might’ve,” Noct says evenly, his eyes flicking up to Ignis’ and then away. “But I didn’t. Is that a problem?”

“No, no,” Iggy sighs. “We’ll do as you wish.”

Whatever nightmare Noct had last night, it must’ve been a bad one. He won’t even look Iggy in the eye.

###

After handing over the supercharger, Prompto expects them to gun it for the cape. Instead, Noct drives to a haven near the coast and tells them to make camp. This might be perfectly normal, except that the sun is still high in the sky.

“Kinda early, isn’t it?” Gladio asks critically. Noct shrugs.

“It’s fine,” he says, without interest — a power play if Prompto’s ever seen one — and wanders off to flop out on the stone.

Prompto drags their sleeping pads out of the trunk before following.

“Here, get up,” he says, standing over Noct.

Noct grunts.

“C’ _mon_!” Prompto whines. “Trust me, dude, I’m optimizing the relaxation experience! You can’t kick back if you’re not _comfortable_.”

Noct cracks an eyelid and peeks at him. He doesn’t look any less irritable, but Prompto can see a lazy kind of fondness in his eye.

“ _Fiiiine_ ,” Noct sighs, and allows Prompto to roll out his bedroll under him.

“Are you sure this is a good use of our time?” Gladio asks, sidling up. Noct groans.

“Dude,” he says. “Give me one day off before everything goes to hell, okay? Nothing ever goes as planned and we _know_ it, so can we just… can I just have one day?”

Gladio raises both hands defensively and wanders off to find Iggy, leaving Prompto standing over Noct.

“Wanna we go swimming?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” Noct says sulkily, but Prompto can see him considering it.

“C’mon!” he wheedles. “You don’t even have to swim! You can just — catch fish in the vicinity of a guy who happens to be swimming.”

“I dunno,” Noct sighs, feigning disinterest. “Is this guy gonna scare off all the fish?”

“He’d _never_!” Prompto swears, hand-over-heart. Noct smirks at him.

“Whatever,” he says. “Fine. It’s too hot to nap, anyway.”

###

Swimming was a bad idea.

The sun loves Noct; he’s all smooth skin and hard angles. Prompto skins his knee on a rock because he’s staring too hard to look where he’s going. When he stumbles, he’s pretty sure he can hear Gladio snickering.

Of course, Noct is still Noct, even when he’s just had a traumatic nightmare and is being unusually accommodating. That means that for an hour after Prompto splashes, yelping, into the water, Noct naps in the sand with his shirt off.

When the sunlight refracts off the water and sprays shuddering bars of light over Noct’s shoulders, he’s a statue carved from marble, a masterpiece so perfect that its sculptor must have hung up their tools and quit, knowing they'd never again make something so beautiful. By now, Noct has cast off most of the strange, buzzy energy that clung to him this morning, and is looking as relaxed as Prompto’s ever seen him. Prompto could look at him forever.

It’s not enough. Prompto breaches like a dolphin and boosts himself onto the rocks. When he flings himself onto Noct’s towel, spraying him with saltwater, Noct makes a sound like a cat that’s been dunked in a toilet tank.

“Sorry!” Prompto says shamelessly, grinning. “But dude, you’re doing it wrong. You’re not even fishing, which is like, the _least_ -engaged way to engage with the beach.”

“That’s not true,” Noct says reproachfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” Prompto sighs, waving him away. “I know, you reach nirvana every time you land a fish. Come stick your feet in the water, at least.”

On a normal day, Noct might brush him off. For a guy who spends so long in the shower, he sure hates to get wet. But Noct’s in a rare, sentimental mood, and Prompto’s got a hunch he won’t say no again.

Sure enough, Noct rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he sighs. “If it’ll get you off my case.”

“It will,” Prompto says primly, and helps carry Noct’s towel to the water’s edge.

Prompto snaps a few pictures — of the sun on the water, and the way the water churns to pale jade where it meets the cliffs, and of Noct shading his face, and Noct smiling, and Noct rolling his eyes, and the way Noct seems to absorb the light and glow even brighter than the surface of the sea.

“Come on,” Noct says drily. “You’re making me blush.”

Of course that makes Prompto _actually_ blush, because he is way too far gone to maintain any sense of decorum. But his sunburn will hide it, probably, and it doesn’t really matter anyway. He slings an arm over Noct’s shoulders and leans in close, pressing his temple against Noct’s.

“One more,” he says, and mugs for the camera. Contentment blooms from his belly and swells in his chest as Noct rolls his eyes and wraps his own arm around Prompto, pulling him in with an unusually firm grip. From another angle, it could probably be called a hug.

Prompto snaps the picture, and then — audaciously — he leaves his arm where it is. Noct doesn’t pull away either. Prompto’s damp, salt-roughened skin feels warm where it meets Noct’s. He feels warm all over.

Looking at Noct, feeling Noct’s warm palm against his neck, seeing the lazy smirk on Noct’s face, he’s overwhelmed by the powerful desire to die here — not because he wants to die, obviously, but because he can’t bear to see anything else but this ever again for as long as he lives. The thought that the moment will pass — that the two of them will push themselves to their feet and rejoin the others and move on with their lives — is abhorrent; intolerable.

Of course, the moment passes. No matter how he might want it to, time can’t freeze, and the clock will never turn back.

###

The next morning, Noct is back to normal. They make for the Cape at dawn, and Prompto chalks it up to trauma. Anyone who’s seen the shit that they’ve seen is bound to have a weird day every once in a while. There’s no reason to overthink it.

Besides, they’ve got a boat to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i envision this series as a funky little mystery where future-Noct drops in on the past-chocobros at a few key moments & Prompto sloowly starts to figure out what’s going on! as you probably figured out, this particular visit happens shortly after Noct throws Prompto off the train.


	2. the ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halfway to Altissia, Prompto gets up in the middle of the night to find Noct already awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW alcohol

Two days later, it happens again.

They’re nearly halfway to Altissia. Prompto’s never been this far from solid ground before, and he’s finding it more than a little dizzying. He thought he’d got used to the sheer expanse of space, sleeping rough in the desert with the guys. But he’s never seen anything like this.

As far as he can see in every direction, the world is mirrored cobalt, run through with ribbons of deepest indigo and spattered with sunlight like glittering static. He’d thought the endless blue might freak him out, but to his surprise, he’s way more disturbed by the horizon.

Before he joined Noct on the world’s longest, deadliest bachelor party, Prompto had never left the city. For his whole life he was sheltered, _literally_ , shielded from the wind and the rain by pillars of concrete and glass and steel. He could barely see the sky, much less the horizon.

Here, the horizon is everywhere he looks. The rim of the world is so smooth and even that it feels like a careless misstep might send him stumbling over the edge. When he stares at it for too long, a dizzying heaviness swirls in the pit of his gut, like he’s falling a long way and just doesn’t know it yet. But he’s not about to say that to the others.

Gladio is visibly, obviously unafraid, or possibly he _is_ a little unnerved and is compensating, but either way, hearing Prompto whine will piss him off. And although Iggy’s keeping it together, he’s looked queasy since they first set foot on the ship. So, sure, Prompto’s a little antsy. So what? It’s not like it matters how Prompto feels.

When they drop anchor for the night, it takes him a while to fall asleep. Prompto never really sleeps soundly, not even when he’s in a soft bed on solid ground. Of course getting shaken around on a big floating coffin wasn’t gonna do him any favors. So he’s not surprised when he finds himself awake in the middle of the night.

Prompto knows better than to try to force himself to fall asleep when his insomnia’s flaring. It’s pointless and it’s frustrating and, worst of all, it’s _boring_. Better to ( _quietly_ ) shuck off his sleeping bag and get in some quality stargazing.

Barefoot and shivering, he pulls the flannel liner out of his sleeping bag and wraps it around his shoulders before padding quietly to the deck.

The stars are, as anticipated, pretty freaking mind-blowing. Silver studs the black in clusters and swirls, so dense he can almost believe that the whole void of space glows pearly-bright. The entire sky is alive with it. Prompto throws his head back and stares, so hungrily that he nearly forgets to blink. He’s never been able to figure out a camera setting that lets him capture this impossible tapestry of light and dark, but maybe tonight’s the night. It’s not like he’s going to be sleeping anytime soon.

Then, from the bow of the boat, a sound snags in his ear, clearer and sharper than the _wshh_ and _slp_ of the surf against the hull.

...It sounds kind of like a hiccup.

When Prompto squints, he can _juuust_ make out the outline of a figure, an oblong swatch of black against the silver-studded sky. He has a moment to feel a surge of panic about — what, stowaways? Mer-people? Some kind of amphibious assassin? And then he remembers that his three best friends are the only humans in any direction for at _least_ a hundred miles, and relaxes. It’s probably Iggy, vomiting quietly to avoid inconveniencing anyone. It’d be just like him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soft enough to know that the waves will wash away his voice before it can reach the guys sleeping below deck. “You okay?”

As he steps closer, the clouds shift, and the moon — a perfect sliver of silver, like a holy toenail clipped from Shiva’s own foot — gilds the deck in mercury. Now it’s bright enough that Prompto’s eye can finally trace the edges of the silhouette. It’s not Iggy. The top of his head is tufty, not spiky. Which means…

“ _Noct_?” he says, flabbergasted, and then surges forward to catch Noct by the shoulders before the prince can flinch over the edge and go splashing into the sea.

“Yeah,” Noct says thickly, and a little — sloppily? Smearing his vowels a little, so the sounds blur into each other. Prompto blinks at him, cocks his head to one side.

“What are you doing up, dude?” he asks. Noct flaps a hand at him.

“I just — needed a _rest_ ,” he says, unusually emphatic. “Just wanted to — see the sky, just for a… I’m going back, okay? I just needed a break.”

“…A break from sleeping?”

Noct’s silhouette straightens.

“…yes,” he says slowly. “A break.. from sleeping.” Then he seems to register who’s asking, and he slumps a little. “Prompto,” he says, sounding — again — bizarrely, inexplicably heartbroken.

“That’s what they call me,” Prompto confirms, a little uneasy. He can see the moonlight shine off of something in Noct’s hands, something smooth and reflective, and there’s kind of a weird smell hanging in the air — sharp and bright and a little bit vinegary. It smells kinda like… “Dude, are you drunk?” he realizes abruptly. “Is that liquor? Where did you even _get_ that?”

“Found it,” Noct says miserably, taking another swig. And then, with a watery little chuckle: “Would you believe it was in the first place I looked?”

Prompto follows Noct’s gaze to a shadow in the hull, where a _tiny_ , barely-visible swatch of wood paneling has been pried back to reveal a tiny, barely-visible hidden compartment. It’s clearly designed to smuggle secrets. Even in broad daylight, it would be impossible to find by sight alone. Prompto sat right here for six hours this morning, taking pictures, and he never even noticed. When he flips the hatch shut, there isn’t even a seam.

“That’s… really crazy,” he says honestly, brow furrowing as he tries to process that. “Do you think you’ve like… been here before? Like you tapped into some repressed memory or something?”

Noct makes a ragged sound that is almost definitely a laugh, but only because Noct would never let himself sob where anyone could hear him.

“Ha ha,” he says — like, literally says the words _ha_ and _ha_. “In another life, in a — a parallel universe, or something, maybe you and me got bored and searched the ship for secrets. Maybe we rapped on every panel until we found one that rang hollow, and then got hammered at one in the morning while Specs was asleep, and the first thing we did when we got to Altissia is puke off the pier.” He lets out a frustrated huff of breath. “Or maybe my dad said something about it when I was a kid or something. Does it matter?”

Prompto doesn’t really know what to say to that. He settles for, “okay, well, are you gonna share?”

This time, Noct actually laughs.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, reaching half-heartedly back and making grabby hands at Prompto’s ankle. “C’mere.”

Well, Prompto is definitely not going to argue with that. He shuffles forward and flops down at Noct’s side, his feet dangling over blackness. Noct passes the bottle, and Prompto takes a tentative sip.

“ _Oof_ ,” he grunts, grimacing. “Ugh. Urgh. That is — Noct, that is _bad_.”

“Isn’t it?” Noct agrees drily.

“No, dude, it’s not _I wish I had a chaser_ bad, it’s like — interred-with-the-Mystic-millennia-ago, could-probably-corrode-steel bad. Like, maybe it _used_ to be whiskey, and then the centuries withered it to dust, but then that dust fermented into liquor again. If I have another sip, am I gonna die?”

“I promise that this bottle will not kill you,” Noct tells him solemnly.

“Well, phew,” Prompto says, and takes another swig.

###

 _Astrals_ , but Prompto loves drinking. It’s like — it’s like all the voices in his head that usually tell him that he’s not good enough, and not funny enough, and that everyone wishes he would go away, and if they ever found out what he really was, they would— _no, no, don’t finish that thought_. It’s like all the cruel, vindictive voices shut the hell up for a minute, and Prompto can just do what he wants without having to wonder if anyone hates him for it.

“Nooooct,” he warbles, flopping over sideways to drape himself over Noct’s shoulders. “Why aren’t you okay? Is it Luna? She’s fine, dude, I just heard her on the radio like, yesterday.”

Noct shudders and pulls Prompto in closer. Prompto, blissed out to hell and back, nuzzles into his shoulder.

“No,” the prince sighs. “It’s — it’s not Luna. It’s — I’m—”

To Prompto’s astonishment, Noct pulls him up by the collar, _hard_ , and slams his forehead against Prompto’s in what can only be called a _headbutt_.

“Pffw,” Prompto sputters as Noct glares at him from _not even_ an inch away and oh, fuck, oh, gods, Prompto’s gonna kiss him, there’s no way he’s _not_ gonna kiss him, he’s _right there_ —

“Prom,” Noct says seriously.

“I — Noct?” It’s hard to focus with Noct so close, looking like an oncoming storm and smelling like pine and steel and rain-soaked earth, his sensitive brow shadowed and his mouth soft and worried. And— and— and maybe if Prompto kissed him, Noct wouldn’t look so worried? Maybe the lines on his brow would smooth and he would open his mouth and kiss Prompto back, hungrily, because maybe Prompto isn’t just kidding himself, and Noct wants him too. Maybe Noct’s grip on Prompto’s neck _does_ mean something; and even if it doesn’t, maybe Prompto can still— make him feel good; make him forget, just for a minute, everything that—

“Prompto,” Noct says again, even more seriously, and Prompto deflates a little.

“Yeah,” he says, trembling.

“You know I—” Noct scowls and breaks away. Prompto feels the loss like a wound. “You know I — _ugh_ ,” Noct snaps, visibly frustrated. “I can’t figure out how to… Look, there’s nothing I could learn that would make me stop being your friend, okay?”

“You don’t know that,” Prompto says, before he remembers to be careful and claps a hand over his mouth. Noct glares at him, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I _do_!”

“Okay,” Prompto says reasonably. “But what if I like, killed all our friends?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“But if I—”

“I’m being serious!” Noct hisses, eyes flashing. “I’m — I mean I’m — I’m talking about stuff that’s actually possible!”

“You don’t know everything about me,” Prompto says darkly, and then clamps his teeth together because _astrals_ , this is exactly why he doesn’t let himself get drunk. Other people — _normal_ people get to drink and cut loose, because they don’t have secrets that could get them killed, or worse. Prompto’s seen what Lucians do to Imperials. He’s _done_ what Lucians do to Imperials! He’s set them on fire and pulsed their bones to powder and compressed them to the size of a softball with localized grav fields, and afterwards he cracked wise with his buddies and swapped high fives. And why shouldn’t he? They were just MTs.

MTs, Empties, it’s a fun play on words about being hollow inside and grey and hard, and cold, like steel. Noct probably at least likes Prompto, so maybe if he learned the truth, he would look at his friend and go, _man, wow, geez, I’m glad you got out before they got in your head_ , or whatever. But _maybe_ Noct would look at him and it would just — click, like suddenly it all made perfect sense, why Prompto was always so desperate and frantic and flashy and _showy_ — because it was all a show, just an intricate stageplay put on by the world’s saddest method actor. And then Noct — probably wouldn’t kill him, actually, because as competent at violence as his best friend is, Prompto is just pretty sure Noct wouldn’t have the stomach. But Noct would ditch him, certainly. An _MT_ on his Crownsguard? It’s worse than a security risk. It’s an _embarrassment_.

“Prom?” Noct says, sounding alarmed.

—aaand now Prompto’s crying. Of _course_ he’s crying.

“M’fine,” he manages to blubber, before he flops over onto his side and retches. Gods, he feels awful. Why does he always do this? It's not like he's contributing anything else to the group. Why can't he at least be easy? Does he have to be a burden _everywhere_ he goes?

“Here, c’mon,” he can hear Noct say, though it feels a little far away. “C’mere. You poor fucker. Astrals, it’s not—” Noct breaks off, takes a breath. “It’s _really_ not your fault. Here, come here," and now Prompto can feel Noct's hands on his back, one between his shoulder blades and one behind his neck, nudging his face toward the side of the ship — so he can puke without having to lie in it, probably. “You’re okay, Prom. I got you.”

###

Astrals, but Prompto hates drinking. Why does he ever do it? He just completely loses his self-control, and all the stupid bullshit he keeps caged and padlocked and buried in the back of his mind comes thundering out and suddenly it’s like everything he’s ever done was wrong, like everyone he’s ever wanted would be better off if he was dead. Like _Prompto_ would be better off dead.

His stomach seems to have figured out that it’s picked a losing horse, and now it’s making every effort to escape by way of his windpipe. He’s got spit crusted to his face but if he moves his arm to wipe it off he will _definitely_ hurl. He just wants to go back to bed but there is no fucking way he’ll make it without tumbling into the sea. _Maybe that would be for the best. That’s what everyone wants anyway._

“...just wish I could talk to you about it,” he becomes aware that Noct is saying, though the prince sounds more like he’s muttering to himself than actually talking to anyone. “You just — _really_ don’t have to worry, but of course it’s exactly the sort of thing you’d worry about. This would all be so much easier if I could just _find_ you,” he says, sounding so agonized that Prompto manages to open his eyes.

“Me?” he croaks. “I’m right here.”

Noct turns to face him, looking suddenly, startlingly fond.

“Yeah,” he says, and seems to make his mind up about something. “Okay, yeah, I’m back. I gotta go,” he says firmly, squaring his jaw. “There’s something I have to do.”

“...go to bed?”

Noct opens his mouth and then closes it. For a moment he looks downright sheepish.

“Yes,” he says. “I have to go to bed.” He looks down at Prompto and smirks. “Are you gonna remember any of this tomorrow?”

“Are _you_?” Prompto mumbles, mostly to be bratty but partly because he’s suddenly got the weirdest sense of deja vu. Noct rolls his eyes.

“Get some sleep, Prompto. And, uh.” Noct glances uneasily away, toward the sky, and then the sea. “Just… I'll always come for you, okay? So you don't have to worry about that."

“That’s so nice,” Prompto mumbles, rolling over dizzily. “I love you, Noct.”

Noct goes rigid for a second, and for a moment Prompto’s _absolute world-ending panic_ is enough to cut through the fog in his mind — and then Noct sets his jaw and nods.

“I’ll see you real soon,” he says, eyes burning with conviction that seems a bit out of proportion, given the extremely high odds of waking up on the same boat tomorrow.

“See you,” Prompto warbles, and passes out.

###

Prompto wakes up and briefly considers surgically removing his own brain. He never made it below deck. His memories of the end of the night are foggy, but Noct must have set up a little bed for him on the deck, cause there’s a pillow under his head and a sleeping bag wrapped around him. There’s even a metal bucket and a canteen still half-full of water. It’s comfier than he’s used to, honestly. But it does nothing to stop the unforgiving light of dawn from drilling straight through his eyes and sending shuddering lances of pressure rocketing up his optic nerve.

“Wehh,” Prompto mewls and, trailing his blankets behind him, he shuffles below deck.

###

He does talk to Noct about it later, sort of. Or, well — he asks Noct if he’s hungover, and nods his commiseration when Noct answers with a silent, dead-eyed glare.

“Makes sense,” Prompto says sympathetically, reaching out to pat him and then thinking better of it. “Poor Noct.” He starts to ask why Noct decided to drink the better part of a flask of whiskey alone, knowing that they’d be stuck in the unrelenting sun on the open ocean for the whole next day, but — whatever it was, Noct clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. “I can’t believe you tackled that thing alone,” he says instead, opting for the indirect approach. “If you waited for me, we coulda split it, and then you’d feel at least 30% less dogshit.”

“Yeah, and you’d have thrown yourself into the sea,” Noct says icily, and then rolls his eyes. "Sorry. I feel like shit."

“Hey, say no more,” Prompto tells him honestly. He’s still grateful to Noct for taking care of him last night, especially when Noct’s the one who felt compelled to start solo drinking in the dead of night like some kind of maudlin TV pirate. “Can I get you some water?”

###

They spend the rest of the day nursing twin hangovers.

“You two on your period or something?” Gladio snorts when he catches them curled up in the dark below deck.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Prompto says drily, while Noct mutters, “you know, that’s kind of offensive.”

“So you _don’t_ want lunch?” Gladio asks, raising his eyebrows at them. “Is that what I’m hearing?”

Prompto had been trying to think of a way to ask Noct what was bothering him so much that he'd skip sleep in order to brood. But after lunch they start to feel a little better, and then Iggy wants to talk about the best diplomatic approach to arranging a meeting with the Leviathan, and when night falls, Noct is asleep in an instant. He sleeps till noon the next day, too, and only wakes up because Gladio hoists him out of bed and shoves him, protesting, into the daylight.

“Iggy says you gotta get Vitamin D,” Gladio explains. “Or you’ll get sick.”

“I’ve never been sick a day in my life,” Noct sighs, which everyone present knows is a lie.

So whatever it is that was keeping him up, he seems to have moved past it. Prompto sidles up and nudges Noct’s shoulder with his own.

“Coffee?” he says hopefully, holding out a cup.

“I can brew it fresh—” Ignis starts to argue, but Noct is already drinking. When he looks up, his eyes have gone all squinty with pleasure.

“Thanks, Prompto.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol watch me project all my neuroses on this poor boy, i’m so sorry prompto u did nothing to deserve this ~(>_<~)
> 
> oh yeah and in case it wasn't clear, this visit takes place when Noct is on that miiiisserable slog of a solo mission thru Gralea, after he's pieced together the truth of Prompto's origins thru all those research notes, but before he's actually found & rescued the guy.


	3. the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto confronts Noctis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall. _yall_. shit is about to pop off. fair warning for the like 2% of you that are reading this for the plot alone, this chapter gets pretty friggin shippy; i did a lot of helpless giggling / panicking / hiding my face while writing it. sue me, i know what i like.
> 
> (i bumped the rating to mature for some hardcore flirtation/physical attraction stuff, even though i highly doubt that this qualifies as remotely “mature” content -- just wanna play it super safe!)

The third time it happens, Prompto is ready for it. 

It’s their first night in Altissia, which honestly really is as beautiful as they say. The jewel of Accordo is all tiered pools of clear water emptying into the next, with a skyline the color of toasted marshmallow. It’s as grand as the Crown City in its own way, though of course it doesn’t _loom_ like the Crown City, where the skyscrapers really do scrape the sky. 

For most of the day, Noct is in high spirits — or as high as his spirits get, anyway, which means he’s flashing enigmatic, Mona Lisa half-smiles in almost _all_ of Prompto’s pictures. He follows along patiently as Prompto drags him to all the places he’s read about, from the Tidemother’s fountain to the off-shore docks to the Totomostro Arena. They even go to see Lunafreya’s wedding dress, which evokes in Prompto a particularly painful cocktail of concern, regret and wrenching, sickening envy.

And then suddenly, right after dinner, Noct’s mood turns dark. 

“This is pointless,” he bursts out suddenly, not fiery but cold and heavy and endlessly tired. Which would be normal enough, until he flashes Iggy a watery, apologetic smile.. “Sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you. Just… Can we check into the hotel or something? I’m feeling a little worn down. Culture shock, maybe.” 

Prompto squints at him, disoriented. This is not Noct behavior. 

Prompto loves the guy, but Noct abso _lut_ ely takes Iggy for granted. Sure, he’s been known to apologize, on rare occasions when his temper gets the best of him and he accidentally says something _really_ nasty. But never like this, all guilty and tired and sad. 

It’s not the weirdest thing Prompto’s ever seen, but it throws him a little; puts his hackles up. His unease lingers after they go down for the night, so he spends some time scrolling through the photos, until Iggy’s whistling snore and Gladio’s rattling one slowly fill the darkened space. And he’s still awake when Noct rises, silent as death itself, and pads to the patio door.

The private patio meant that the room cost more than twice as much as the cheapest ones, but Prompto has to admit that it’s nice. It overlooks the canals, where yellowing lamplight glances off of ink-black water and the rushing current washes away the endless patter of human voices. 

Noct doesn’t turn at the sound of the door.

“Lemme guess,” he says — softly, so he doesn’t wake the others. “Prompto, right?” 

It’s just _weird_. It’s not like Noct wasn’t always prone to fits of melancholy. The guy’s a born brooder. And yet somehow he still seems drastically, irreconcilably off. 

Usually Noct’s fits of storminess come on like a tidal wave and wash away just as quick. It’s never like this, all sardonic and distant and _tired_. He’s had a few weird days of late, but this is still, like, unprecedented. 

But Prompto can’t just _say_ that. You’ve gotta approach Noct from the side, or he’ll spook like a horse and bolt. 

“That’s me!” he chirps instead. “Can’t sleep, huh?” 

“Looks that way,” Noct says quietly. “Kinda feels like I got enough sleep for a lifetime.” 

Prompto frowns at him. For the third time this week, it's like the words don't match up with the context. It doesn't make any _sense_.

“Well, I guess… me too?” he tries. “Hey, because of all that stuff with the First Secretary, we swung through Maagho and didn’t even sample the menu. You wanna like, get a bite?” 

“You want to sneak out in the middle of the night to _get a bite_?” Noct asks icily, and _now_ he sounds like Noct. Which means Prompto knows his role in this, too.

“Pleeeease?” he wheedles, bounding forward to bump Noct’s arm with his own. “It’s my first time out of the country and there’s a cool floating bar and yet somehow, my hand is still empty of a fancy drink with a tiny umbrella! What’ll I do if there’s a tiny rainstorm?” he asks, so pitifully that Noct gives up on glaring and laughs out loud. 

“Oh, fine,” Noct snickers, shoving him away with one hand. “Have it your way. You’re spoiled,” he adds, accusatory. 

“Only cause you spoil me,” Prompto shoots back, winsome. “Really, you only have yourself to blame.” 

###

When the gondola pulls up to Maagho, Prompto half-expects Noct to go back to normal, or at least to explain what’s eating him. Instead, he swings the other way. Noct looks at the place like a captain watching his trusty ship slowly sink into the depths. 

“Well, I think it looks nice,” Prompto says, startling the prince out of his reverie. 

“Of course it’s nice,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “Did I imply otherwise?” 

“No,” Prompto says, despairing a little, because again, that’s just _weird_. Noct is never this direct. Normally he would’ve — Prompto doesn’t know, deadpanned something about how he’s seen nicer, or something. Prompto’s approaching Noct like he always does and yet his words keep bouncing off him all wrong, ricocheting away at weird angles. He strains to think of what he might be missing. 

“You haven’t been hearing the Leviathan, have you?” he asks hopefully, once they’ve grabbed their drinks and retreated to a darkened corner on the steps to the canal. When Noct was getting visions from the Titan, and later when he had Gentiana’s voice in his head, he felt kinda off, cause Prompto didn’t have all his context. 

But “What? No,” Noct says dismissively. “I don’t think she’s the type.”

“Okay, but then — then what’s your deal?” Prompto finds himself demanding. “Or, I mean, what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Noct insists. But behind that harried expression, Prompto can sense grief and guilt and sickening, roiling shame. 

“Dude!” he bursts out, his frustration finally surfacing. “Why are you— whatever it is, you don’t have to lie to me! If you don’t want to talk about it, you can just say so and I’ll leave it alone, I really will! But you know you don’t have to censor yourself with me, dude! I’m, like… the whole reason I’m _here_ is to support you. You don’t have to hide just because it’s — sad, or, or, _unbecoming of a prince_ or whatever.”

Noct looks pained. 

“But it’s—“ he starts to argue, and then grimaces. “I don’t know what to tell you, Prompto.”

“Just tell the truth!!”

Noct sighs. “You wouldn’t believe me if I tried,” he says, resigned. 

“Try me!” 

“I’m serious, Prom.”

“So am I!” Prompto scoots forward, gets in Noct’s face a little, so the prince can’t avoid his eyes. “You’ve, like, decided this thing in your head and so you won’t even try. But I’m — I’m tougher than I look! Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

“You _really_ can’t.”

“That’s so unfair!!” Prompto whines, eyes stinging from sheer, helpless frustration. “You can’t just decide stuff about me without even— Can’t you see how that’s unfair?” 

“Ughhh,” Noct groans, bringing his hands to his temples. “Shiva, I just wanted one night off, where I could see you guys without—“ He cuts himself off again, and Prompto throws his hands up.

“Just finish the sentence! Finish literally _any_ sentence!! You’re all, like, enigmatic silence lately and I get it, you like to keep people out or whatever, but you’re — you’re doing it to me too,” he finishes, acutely aware of how pathetic he sounds. Gods damn it, he’d wanted to give Noct a comfy space to open up about his problems. He never meant to lecture the guy, especially about something so trivial as feeling left out. 

He opens his mouth to apologize, to back off and give Noct space and maybe buy him a snack. But to his surprise, Noct gets there first.

“You want the truth?” he spits, properly angry now but no less exhausted. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I’m from the future, okay? I’m from a really, really shitty future.”

Prompto stares at him. Noct stares right back, bristling and defensive and strangely a little self-conscious. Huh. Okay _._

“You’re… from the future?” Prompto echoes, just to make sure he heard that right. 

Noct nods.

Prompto chews that over. It’s… He _guesses_ that it would explain Noct’s mood, and why Noct feels like Noct and also unlike Noct. But it’s only once every few days that he gets like this. So… 

“But only _sometimes_?” he asks hesitantly, feeling more than a little unhinged. Noct rolls his eyes. 

“Basically!” he snaps. “Yeah, basically, I’m from the future but only sometimes. Or, I mean — I only visit sometimes. And when I do, I show up back here, where everything is still fine, and I can _almost_ pretend that everything’s going to be okay, except that I already know that it’s not — that it _won’t_ be. Except I’m the _only_ one who knows.” 

Prompto takes some time to work through that. He looks down at his drink, a pink abomination that’s strong enough to give off fumes, brimming with fennel and candied ginger. He takes a sip. It’s too sweet.

“Uh,” he says dizzily. “Um. How… far in the future?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Noct says darkly. And then, with quiet resignation: “You don’t believe me.” 

“No, I believe you,” Prompto says automatically. Then he takes a moment to decide whether or not he means it. He’s surprised to find that he does. “Or, I mean — is it true?” he asks, a little self-consciously. “You’re not, like, messing with me?” 

Even as he finishes asking the question, he can tell that it rings false. No matter how gullible it might make him, he trusts Noct. And it’s not like he wasn’t already wondering about Noct’s spells of sleeplessness; the short stints of anomalous behavior followed by a swift return to normalcy. ‘ _An older version of Noct possessing Noct’s body’_ is actually the most credible explanation he’s heard yet. 

“No,” Noct says unhappily, sagging a little. “I’m not messing with you.”

“Then I believe you,” Prompto says simply. Noct gives him a dubious squint.

“Seriously? Just like that?” 

“Dude, you like, conjure gods and talk to dogs and stuff. Who am I to tell you that you can’t time travel? _I_ can’t time travel, but I can’t shoot lightning out my fingers, either.”

“I guess,” Noct snorts, looking a little dazed. “Wait, I mean, _seriously_? It was that easy? You just — I could have told you any time, and you would just — believe me?”

“Well, yeah,” Prompto tells him, shrugging. “I—” (holy shit what the actual hell, he almost said _love you_ ; what is wrong with him??) “—trust you, dude,” he finishes, recovering valiantly. “And, I dunno. Telling an elaborate lie just to make fun of me for believing it? It doesn’t really seem like the kind of thing you’d find funny.”

“You’ve got me there.” 

Numb silence stretches between them. As usual, Prompto is the one to break it.

“...So what happens in the future?” 

“Oh man,” Noct groans. “You _really_ don’t want to know.”

Prompto’s heart sinks. “It’s that bad?” he asks. He scans through his (admittedly patchy) memories of Noct’s recent funks. He can’t come up with anything specific, but he definitely knows that his arrival always seemed to fill Noct with dread and dismay. Wait… “ _Am I dead_?” he demands, embarrassingly shrill. Noct glares at him.

“No way,” he says, inexplicably offended. “You think I’d let that happen? Come on. I told you, didn’t I?”

“Okay, but then…” Prompto looks at his feet. “Then why are you always so sad to see me?” he asks pitifully. “Whenever you’re — like this, when you’re _visiting_ , I guess… I mean, when I found you on the boat, for a second I thought you were gonna burst into tears.”

“The boat…” Noct says thoughtfully, and then lights up. “Ohh, yeah. That was fun, huh? And then not so fun,” he adds, with a mocking smile. 

Prompto cocks his head, confused. That night on the boat was like, three days ago. Unless… _Oh._ “That was way longer ago for you, huh,” he says quietly. Noct looks surprised.

“Yeah,” he says. “Uh. A really, _really_ long time ago.” 

“When something bad had happened to me?” 

“Yes and no,” Noct says uneasily, his eyes darting away. And then, to Promtpo’s unmitigated alarm, his gaze flicks toward Prompto’s wristband. 

It was only for a second. It could totally have been a coincidence. It’s still enough to set Prompto’s anxiety clanging into full gear. 

“ _Um_ ,” he says desperately, abruptly frantic. “Did you, uh — you don’t, um—“ 

He can feel his heart hammering against his sternum like it’s trying to break out. The lamplight twists and flickers in a way that probably means that he’s not getting enough air; he has to — has to focus on his breathing but he’s— but he’ll — 

“Never mind!!” he says shrilly, utterly failing to hide his panic because he maybe does have a death wish after all. “Never mind I just — I was just — it’s nothing,” he forces out, his tongue swollen and clumsy in his mouth. 

When he looks up, Noct is watching him, looking horribly unhappy. 

“Ah, Prom,” he says miserably. “You don’t have to be scared of me, you know.”

“Scared of — what do you even mean?” Prompto laughs, or tries to laugh, except it comes out awful, all shrill and sharp and strained. “Of course I’m not scared of you.” 

Noct frowns.

“I probably shouldn’t do this,” he admits. “But it’s not like anyone ever gave me any rules…” 

He snakes a hand out and catches Prompto by the wrist. The response is instinctive and immediate: Prompto yanks his hand away like he’s been burned. 

“Sorry—“ he starts to say, but Noct doesn’t look angry. He looks miserable.

“ _Prom_ ,” he says, heartbroken. “Look. I know, okay?”

(No, no, no, this is not happening, he’s talking about something else, this is _not happening—_ )

“I know about your… about where you’re from,” Noct is saying, gingerly, but Prompto can’t hear him because Prompto is a million miles away; because Prompto’s mind has yeeted itself out of his body and is watching the scene play out from somewhere above the mesosphere. 

“ _Prom_ ,” he hears, and becomes distantly aware of a too-tight pressure on his arms. “Will you just — breathe? For a minute? For me?” 

It’s Noct. Of course he can breathe for Noct. He’d do anything for Noct.

“Just listen to me and don’t say anything, okay?” Noct says firmly. “Just for a minute.”

Prompto nods mutely. 

“Okay. So… Yeah. That night on the boat, I had just figured out — where you’re from.”

Prompto presses his eyes shut, but Noct is holding his arms in place, so he can’t cover his ears. 

“And it changed nothing,” Noct goes on, sounding a little desperate. “ _Obviously_ , it changed nothing! Except in so much as it fucking sucks, and made me want to burn the whole empire to the ground and pry every single traumatized kid out of those fucking suits. And I felt a little — sad, I guess,” he adds, quieter. “That you had to hide for so long, and that you felt like — that you didn’t feel safe to tell me. Honestly, I can’t believe you thought I would… I didn’t think you thought so little of me,” he says, a little reproachfully, and now Prompto’s eyes fly open. 

“I _don’t_!” he protests. “I — Noct, you _know_ I don’t—”

“And yet you think I’d, what, kick you to the curb just because of where you’re from?”

“It’s not about where I’m from,” Prompto says miserably, pulling his arms free to press his hands over his eyes. “Gods.. It’s not about where I’m _from_ , Noct, it’s about what I—” — _what I am_ , he was trying to say, but he chokes on the words and all that comes out is an awful sort of whimper. 

“ _Prom_ ,” Noct says miserably, shuffling closer to wrap an arm around Prompto’s shoulders and pull him in so hard it almost hurts. “Prompto, I — what you are is a _person_. And even if you weren’t,” he adds fiercely. “Even if you had nothing but wires under your skin, do you really think that could change how I feel about you?”

Prompto blinks at him dumbly, because, well, of course it would. “Well—”

“ _No_ , _it would not_ ,” Noct snaps, glaring at him. “I _like_ you, okay? You stupid, chronically oblivious _clown_. I could like you half as much and it would still be way, way too much to feel about one person.” 

The deafening clamor in Prompto’s ears starts to fade. He whips around to stare at Noct, right in his startling blue eyes, dizzy with disbelief. 

“You… like me?” he asks breathlessly. 

Noct’s eyes crinkle. He reaches out to brush Prompto’s jaw with his thumb, looking unbearably fond. 

“Yeah,” he says softly, detonating several thousand sparklers in Prompto’s guts, all at once. “I like you.”

Prompto’s head spins. This is all too much, _much_ too much and much too fast. He can’t — can’t take it all in, can’t make it make sense, because Noct _can’t_ like him. Noct is a prince and a hero; Noct is good and true and perfect and Prompto’s a paper boy stuffed with anxiety and desperation and held together with lies and old twine. Noct is the chosen king but he’s not _just_ the chosen king, he’s strong and he’s brave and he’s _good_. Noct is the hero of this story, and Prompto — Prompto’s not even a real person.

“...as a friend?” he asks dizzily. Noct rolls his eyes. 

“ _No_ ,” he says, pointedly clear. “Not as a friend.” 

“......as a loyal subject?” 

“No, you walking inferiority complex, not as a loyal subject. Astrals. I like you as a— as a—” Finally, Noct’s sense of shame seems to catch up with his mouth. He flushes crimson and glares at his feet. “As a — man, or whatever,” he mutters. “As a — person I want to kiss on the mouth.” 

“ _My_ mouth?” Prompto asks, giddiness unfurling in his belly, like a million moths breaking from their cocoons all at once. “ _Really_?” 

“Believe it or not, yes,” Noct says wryly, cloaking his embarrassment in the usual armor of detachment and disdain. Prompto beams, delirious with disbelief.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” he says, and Noct shoves him off the stairs. 

“Asshole,” Noct huffs, glaring. “Aren’t you gonna say anything?” 

“Well, I could,” Prompto says, grinning helplessly up at him. And then, sitting up and creeping closer: “But I’d rather just—” 

Prompto’s heart is hammering in his ears, and he’s still shaking a little with the impossibility of it all. But if this is some kind of sweet, intoxicating fever dream, he’s not about to waste it. He slides closer, trembling. When he reaches for Noct’s jaw, he almost has to close his eyes against the way Noct seems to unfurl a little at his touch. The prince’s lips are parted, pupils blown, his perfect mouth quirked in what’s almost a smirk and oh my gods, oh my _gods_ it’s really fucking happening, it’s _finally_ happening, how can this be _real_ —

And then Noct breaks away, and Prompto’s left fumbling with empty air. 

“Buh?” he says, extremely intelligently. Noct grimaces and shakes his head. 

“It’s not like I don’t want to,” Noct says hastily, like he can read Prompto’s mind or something, because that was _definitely_ his first guess. “I — gods, Prom, you can’t imagine—” He shakes his head again, more vigorously than before. “But it’s not fair.” 

“To _who_?” Prompto demands. Noct gives him a wry look. 

“Believe it or not, to _me_. Uh — the other me. Past me. I’m pretty sure if I found out that I finally got to kiss your _stupid_ face and I wasn’t even really _there_ for it, I’d burn this whole city to the ground.” 

“Bet you say that to all the guys,” Prompto says, his face heating up. Then his mind catches up with his mouth, and he processes that. “Oh. You — _my_ you, I mean, right now-you — you’re saying he won’t remember this.” 

Noct’s mouth tightens. “No,” he says quietly. “Or not with any detail, anyway. Sorry if that fucks your life up a little.” 

Prompto frowns.

“...does _he_ like me?” he asks worriedly. “The other you?”

“Of course he does,” Noct snaps, and then hesitates. “But,” he says, and heaves a sigh that fills Prompto with a near-lethal overdose of dread. “It was more complicated back then. I always l— liked you, dumbass. But back then, I—” Noct looks at his feet. “He likes Luna too. Not like he likes you, but… I don’t know. I was really gonna marry her, you know?”

“Why didn’t you?”

Noct’s expression shutters. Prompto _hates_ when it does that. 

“You’re about to have a really bad week,” Noct admits, which is both deeply alarming and also really not an answer. 

“What do you mean??” Prompto demands. Noct sighs heavily.

“I’m not sure I can… Can we put a pin in that?” he asks, with some of his former exhaustion. “I don’t really know if… I mean, I don’t think there’s anything you can _do_ , so knowing might just make things worse. The point is, this is barely even real, so I think it would be dumb to, you know, do anything reckless. Besides,” he adds, looking faintly amused. “I’m too old for you.” 

“Huh?” But he and Noct are the same — ohhh, right, duh, okay, he walked right into that one. “How much older?”

“Ten years,” Noct admits. “Though I wasn’t exactly lucid for most of them, so I’m not sure it—”

“Ten _years_?” Prompto yelps. And then, optimistically: “Age ain’t nothing but a number?”

“Nice try,” Noct smirks. 

“It’s not like I’m just some helpless teenager!!” Prompto protests. “I’m 22. I could sneak out and screw a 30-year-old and it would all be totally above board.” 

“Aw, are you trying to make me jealous?” Noct purrs, all leonine, half-lidded confidence. “Fat chance. You’re way too obsessed with me.”

“Well, _yeah_!” Prompto says emphatically, waving his hands to try to distract Noct from the fact that he’s got so much blood rushing to his cheeks that there’s probably none left in his brain. “Have you _seen_ you??”

Noct rolls his eyes tolerantly.

“The answer is still no,” he says smoothly. Prompto glares at him.

“You’re a sadist, you know that?” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Noct shoots back, so low and husky that it’s almost a growl. “Why? Do you like it?” 

“ _Will you stop that_?” Prompto shrills, voice cracking in three places. “It’s — you’re — it’s not _fair_!” 

Noct cracks up.

“Sorry, sorry,” he snorts, holding his hands up in surrender. “You’re right. I’ll be nice. You can flirt with your own Noct.” 

“Who, that guy? He’s too busy mooning after Luna to give me the time of day,” Prompto sniffs. Noct opens his mouth to argue, but Prompto’s not finished. “I know, I know, it’s _complicated_. But—” He hesitates. “But you — or, I mean, he…” Prompto stumbles, looks sheepishly at his hands. “Even if he doesn’t — want me right now, um, does he at least… Does he still think I’m…” 

“—cute?” Noct finishes for him, with a mocking smile that really shouldn’t go straight to Prompto’s dick. “How can you sit there looking like that and ask me such a stupid question? Yeah, dumbass, I think you’re cute, and I think you’re hot, and I think you’re…” He trails off, sounding unusually dreamy. “When I first saw you in your fatigues, I thought I was gonna die. They might as well be painted on, for astrals' sake.”

Noct’s hand flicks out and, before he can stop himself, the pads of his fingers skate up Prompto’s side, tracing the line of his ribs. In spite of his best efforts, Prompto fails to suppress the keening whine that squeaks from the back of his throat. Noct closes his eyes and shudders. 

“ _Gods_ ,” he breathes. “I waited _way_ too long to hear that.” 

Still wearing a look of fond, tolerant fascination, he slides his hand up Prompto’s chest to graze the side of his neck with his nails. Prompto outright whimpers. 

“Eager,” says Noct huskily, somehow simultaneously mocking and admiring. “I knew you would be.” 

“But—!” Prompto sputters, trying to argue but too giddy to do anything but lean into Noct’s touch. “But you’re the one who—!”

“ _I_ had to wait ten whole years,” Noct says disapprovingly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “What’s your excuse?”

###

They decide to walk it off because, in the circumstances, pressing up against Noct in a confined space is _really_ not doing Prompto any favors. 

“Honestly,” Noct says wryly as they step off the gondola, “I’m surprised you put enough pieces together to confront me about it.”

“Seriously? You were pretty obvious, dude.”

“Maybe to _you_ ,” Noct shoots back, shoving a shoulder into Prompto’s side. “But — no, not just that. I just mean…” He frowns. “I was starting to think this whole thing was — just an illusion, like some kind of happy dream. A gift from the gods to make my burden less heavy, or whatever.” 

“Why come?” Prompto asks, face scrunched. 

“Well, I’ve changed things, right?” Noct says, shrugging. “Small things, but still. I took an extra day off before we headed to Altissia, and I — I snuck off with that bottle on the boat, instead of sharing it with you and Gladio. But my memories haven’t changed. I still remember spending all day poring over the boat with you, looking for secrets. And I still remember heading to Altissia the first day back from the Vesperpool.” His voice turns leaden as he adds, “No matter what I change, it doesn’t actually change anything.”

“Huh,” Prompto says. He’s out of his league with all this magic stuff, but at least he’s read enough scifi to feel like he can contribute. “Maybe they’re like, different timelines?” 

“Maybe,” Noct says, shrugging. “I guess it just means that, you know. What happened already happened. All I can do is go forward. I’ve come to terms with it, mostly.”

“Well, _I_ haven’t,” Prompto huffs. “If the future’s really so dark, surely there’s _something_ we can do. Why else would you come back here, even?” 

“You don’t understand,” Noct sighs. “I barely even have any control over when I end up. And it’s not like I can stay for long. After a while, I start to feel—” He grimaces. “Gods, it’s hard to describe. Kind of… stretched thin? Like I’m being pulled between two different scenes, and neither of them feels fully real. And _yes_ , obviously I tried visiting the important moments — times when I wish I could have changed something. I can’t get there. I’m always too early or too late. But I don’t know if Umbra _won’t_ take me, or if he _can’t._ ”

“Wait, Umbra?” Prompto asks, thrown. “What, the dog?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Noct says vaguely, as if it were totally normal. “Yeah, Umbra’s the one who takes me to the past.” 

“?????”

“Is that really so much harder to believe than the fact that I’m from the future?” Noct asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Point,” Prompto acknowledges. “Okay, so you can’t get to the important stuff, and you can’t change stuff. But, I mean — even if _you_ can’t get there, _I_ can. I like — live here, right? I could be your, like... your agent. Working from the shadows, rerouting the past toward a better future, or whatever. Right?” 

Noct frowns at him. Clearly, that never occurred to him. 

“...maybe,” he admits. “I don’t know. I don’t think it would change _my_ future, or else it already would’ve, right? But… maybe you can change yours? Except—” A frown shadows his perfect face. “I’m not sure there’s much you can do on your own.”

“Well, that’s why I’ve got you, right?” Prompto asks, elbowing Noct cheerfully. Noct sidesteps his arm and grimaces.

“Ah. Uh… Yeah, no. This is as far as I go.”

“Say what now?”

“Umbra won’t take me any later than Altissia,” Noct says, with audible frustration. “And I can’t even ask him _why_.”

“Why not?” 

Noct levels a cold glare at him, and Prompto remembers that Umbra is a dog.

“Right,” he says sheepishly. “Yeah, right, makes sense. Okay, so, no more visits, and no more foresight. That just means we gotta make this one count, right?” Prompto cracks his knuckles and flashes a confident smile that would normally just be for show, except that he just found out that Noct _likes_ him and he’s pretty sure he could wrestle an entire rogue timestream with his bare hands. “So tell me everything I need to know.” 

###

They make a list. Noct does a lot of hemming and hawing, crossing things out and rewriting them and crossing them out again. 

“It’s complicated,” he snaps, when Prompto calls him on it. “Half the stuff I regret, you weren’t even _there_ for. Like, what are you gonna do, knock out the Leviathan before Ardyn has time to—” He bites his tongue, grimaces again. “And some of the bad stuff had, like, waterfalling consequences that _had_ to happen, I think. Like — of course I want to save Luna, but if she doesn’t fall when she does, I’m pretty sure I never form a covenant with Shiva, and if I don’t form a covenant with Shiva, the whole world is doomed.” 

“You’re exaggerating,” Prompto says hopefully. Noct scowls at him.

“I’m really not.” 

Prompto’s heart sinks. “Does Luna really—”

“And like, on the train,” Noct presses on, clearly not listening. “That seems like it’s _gotta_ be in your control, right? But it’s not like you weren’t—” He winces, agonized. “Not like you weren’t already trying to explain, right? But I was just so — so fucking feral with hate that I couldn’t even hear it.”

“Hate for _me_??” 

“Of course not,” Noct snaps. “But _you_ didn’t know that. And the crystal, _gods_ , that’s the worst part. Like — I was gone for _ten years_. I’d give anything to prevent that. But if you stop me from going in, then the whole stupid _world_ ends. So what’s the choice? What are you supposed to do?” 

“You’re not giving me a lot to work with here, buddy,” Prompto says helplessly. “Think you can catch me up a little?” 

###

Noct catches Prompto up.

It is A Lot. Every time Prompto thinks he’s heard the worst thing he could ever hear, it gets worse. Lady Lunafreya dies in agony. Prompto gets thrown off a train and tortured by Niffs. The sun burns out. Noct disappears for _ten freaking years_.

“Okay,” Prompto says faintly, when it seems like Noct is finished. “I, uh. Yeah. I can see why you thought maybe I didn’t want to know.” 

“I _told_ you,” Noct says miserably, tilting Prompto’s chin up so he can get a look at his face. “I said it would be easier not to know, didn’t I? You regret it,” he says, with dawning horror. “Gods damn it, I _told_ you—”

“I don’t regret it,” Prompto says soothingly, mostly on autopilot, because no matter how thoroughly he is losing his shit, he can’t let Noct look like that. “I don’t!!” he insists, in the face of Noct’s doubt. “Look, it’s — there’s gotta be _some_ stuff I can do, right? And — and even if I can’t change anything, and everything happens just the same, at least I’ll know — you know. That you’re coming for me, and — that you’re coming back.”

Noct smiles crookedly. It is not a happy expression.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess. I mean… I guess it’s kind of nice to get to talk about it. There hasn’t been a lot of time to slow down and talk, you know? And at least — at least now there’s a chance,” he sighs. “That — somewhere, in some world, something might go a little better.” 

“Now there’s the bright-eyed optimist I know and love!” Prompto says cheerfully, shouldering Noct, and then blanches because (not for the first time), he may have just said too much. To his relief, Noct doesn’t seem to have noticed. He rolls his eyes and shoves Prompto right back.

“Plus,” Prompto adds hastily, before Noct has time to play that back. “Maybe I can get you on my side.”

“Huh?”

“The other you,” he clarifies. “Right-now you.”

“You think he’d believe you?” Noct asks dubiously. Prompto throws his hands up.

“You tell me!” 

“You know him better,” Noct says, a little hollowly. “I haven’t been that kid in a long time.” 

For once, Prompto doesn’t force himself to sit on his hands. He flings himself at Noct bodily, wraps both arms around him and squeezes as tight as he can. For a moment he can feel Noct tensing up, taut as a bowstring in his arms — and then the fight seems to go out of him, and his arms relax. A heartbeat later, Prompto can feel a touch on his own back, quick and light as a sparrow’s wing. 

“Thanks, Prom,” Noct says tightly, into Prompto’s ear. “I really missed you, you know. It’s why I keep coming back,” he adds, wry and vaguely embarrassed. Prompto grins helplessly into Noct’s shoulder, eyes pressed shut, his blood fizzing in his veins like champagne.

“I thought it was for all the extra naptime,” he quips.

“Yeah, that too.” 

###

It’s so late that Prompto’s starting to feel a little nauseous, but he can’t bring himself to turn in. He’s only just met this Noct, who’s tired and jaded and sad but who also openly, unabashedly _likes_ him in a way that’s simple and true and _not complicated_ , and Prompto is definitely not ready to say goodbye. 

“Will you stick around through tomorrow?” he asks hopefully. Future-Noct sighs. 

“I can’t,” he says regretfully. “I can already feel myself getting pulled away. Plus, it’d be kinda mean. To past-me,” he clarifies, in the face of Prompto’s quizzical stare. “He’s only got one more day to kick back before everything goes to shit. I already left the guy with a hell of a hangover,” he snorts, looking not remotely sorry about it. “I can’t take his last day off, too.” 

“I guess,” Prompto says, wilting a little. He’s not ready to go back to how things were: following Noct around like a loyal dog, mooning over him day and night and throwing longing glances full of doomed love whenever the prince looks away. He had no complaints yesterday, when he thought it was the best he could hope for. Now, it’ll be _torture_. 

“C’mon,” Noct says, shoving him hard enough to send him stumbling and then yanking him back by the collar and ruffling his hair. “We’ve still got a little time, right? What do you wanna do?” 

###

They take a gondola out to the docks across the harbor, facing the city. Altissia is a vision at night, all tiered and buttressed and cast in warmest amber, like firelight given form. Buttery lamplight bounces off the surface of the water like skipping stones, gilding Noct’s face and arms in molten gold. It's cold enough that Prompto feels entitled to sidle up to Noct’s side and slip under his arm, even though from the look of tolerant affection on the prince’s face, Noct knows exactly what he's doing. 

“You’re shameless,” Noct laughs, low and wry. 

“You like it,” Prompto accuses, and lightning crackles from his chest all the way out to the tips of his fingers when Noct just grins and nods along.

“Yeah,” Noct agrees. “I really do.”

They stand and pretend to look at the city while sneaking glances at each other, and then they stop pretending and they’re just openly staring, nose to nose. Prompto feels so warm and whole and right that he can’t even bring himself to care that none of it is real. They distinctly _don’t_ make out, though, because blah blah blah the rules of time travel, blah blah blah discourtesy to your past self, and all the other bullshit that basically just means that Noct is his own worst cockblock. 

After a while, though, Prompto is scared to even _blink_ lest his lids stay shut and leave him sleeping on his feet. He’s swaying so violently that he nearly pitches them over and sends them both splashing into the harbor. 

“Whoa there, Sleeping Beauty,” Noct murmurs, with a little huff of laughter. “It’s past your bedtime, huh? Let’s get you home.” 

“Can I sleep in your bed?” Prompto asks hopefully, because he’s nothing if not an optimist. Noct lets out another amused breath. 

“Do _you_ wanna explain that to past-me when he wakes up?” 

“No,” Prompto admits, pouting. “But I _do_ wanna fall asleep on you.” 

“Well, I guess you’re just gonna have to confess, then, aren’t you?” 

In spite of everything, his exhaustion and his elation and his own love-drunk, slap-happy giddiness, the thought still evokes a surge of reflexive panic.

“I _can’t_ ,” he says, horrified. “I — you’re the one who said stuff is complicated with Luna! And if — if she’s really—” He hangs his head, tormented. “It just doesn’t seem like the right time,” he says heavily. 

A thought strikes him and he looks up, shooting Noct a combative stare.

“Have _you_ even confessed to future me?” he asks, jabbing a finger into Noct’s ribs.

“ _Ow_ ,” Noct says, pointedly removing the offending finger, and then immediately ruins the effect by pulling on Prompto’s hand until it's wrapped tight around his back. “And… Ugh. You wouldn’t understand,” he sighs, because even after ten years, Noct still hasn’t outgrown his own melodrama. 

“Try me.”

Noct scowls and then sags, impatience draining from his face in favor of that now-familiar guilty grimace. 

“I — failed you,” he admits, despondent. “Like, I failed everyone, but I _really_ failed you. I don’t mean on the train, I know I was under a spell or whatever. But then I left. I left you—” He winces, starts over. “I left him all alone,” he says. “For _ten years_. I promised I’d be there for you, for _all_ of you, and then I just — disappeared, and left you to struggle through the dark alone for _years_ , with no way to know if I’d ever be back. After all this time, I’m—” He breaks off, pulls himself free of Prompto’s grip and shudders. “I’m just grateful he’ll even talk to me,” he says miserably. “I doubt he’d—”

“Nnnnope,” Prompto cuts in. “Sorry, buddy,” he says, grinning at Noct’s befuddlement. “But I’m gonna have to cut you off there. You can take it from me that I—” His sense of shame catches up and he tears his gaze away, drops it at his feet. “He’d wait forever,” he says quietly, instead. “So if you still want him, then — then it’s not too late.” 

When he flicks a glance up, Noct is watching him with so much open, unabashed adoration that Prompto has to look away again. 

“I’ll think about it,” Noct promises. “Now c’mon. It’s time to go home. For both of us,” he adds heavily. Prompto heaves a sigh and, in a fit of boldness, reaches out and seizes Noct’s hand. 

“I’ll miss you,” he says shyly, shuffling closer and looking away. From the corner of his eye, he can see Noct roll his eyes. 

“You’ll see me tomorrow.”

“You know what I mean,” Prompto huffs. When Noct laughs, Prompto can feel the prince’s breath ghost over the nape of his neck. 

“Yeah,” Noct says softly. “I really do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eheh i hope that was half as fun to read as it was to write! and hey, if any of y’all make (visual) art and would ever wanna collab, hit me up! i’d be happy to throw you a chapter a few days early if it meant i could see art of my boys :3 my twitter tl is mostly persona stuff and i am sorely in need of more promptis artists!!l i cannot offer much in the way of ~cross-promotion~ cuz i got shit for followers and the ones i do have are mostly shuakes, so basically only hmu if it sounds fun.
> 
> also, here’s a fun question (they said extremely sheepishly): i don't have any real intentions about this, but if i did end up exploring more "explicit" content further down the line, would that turn you off this series? i've gotten kinda polarized responses to that stuff in the past and just wanna make sure i'm writing stuff that people actually wanna read. i won't be offended if you say yes! just wanna know where to draw the line.


	4. the train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct forms a covenant. The gang boards a train. Prompto tries to change the future. (Look, he's doing his best, okay?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do u mean, falling into a creative fugue & writing 50+ pages of fanfic in two days is unhealthy? *sweats* 
> 
> big beefy action-heavy update for yall today!!! hope u enjoy :3

Prompto wakes up and buries his face in his hands.

Future-Noct was right, he realizes, hiding his blush under the sheets. Prompto already feels kinda like he just teleported in from another reality. If he’d spent the night making out with the love of his freaking life and then had to wake up here, where everything is normal and Noct never looks his way, he might actually, _literally_ combust. How is the other Noct handling it, ten years in the future? Knowing him, probably with endless decorum and without a hair out of place.

“Prom,” a familiar voice says irritably. “If _I_ don’t get to sleep in, you _definitely_ don’t.”

Before he can react, the blankets are yanked from his grasp and clear off the bed, leaving him pink and defenseless as a shucked oyster.

Prompto sputters and sits up, trying to look normal and not insane. What does he usually do with his hands? After spending a night tangling them with Noct’s, he’s not sure he remembers how to do anything else.

 _Focus, Prompto. You need to warn Noct_ now _, before it’s too late_.

“Hey, uh — Noct?” he says.

“What.”

Articulate as ever. Noct must have just woken up, or more realistically, just been _woken_ up. He’s always uncooperative for the first hour of the day. Prompto calculates the odds and reroutes.

“I have to tell you something,” he says. “Can we talk later?”

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he saw Noct’s eyes bug out a little before returning to the usual discontented squint.

“...sure,” Noct says, his gaze flicking away. “Whatever.”

“Whatever it is,” Iggy interrupts crisply, making Prompto jump. “It will simply have to wait until we’ve prepared for negotiations with the First Secretary. I know that you’re tired, your majesty, but this cannot be neglected.”

“No, I know,” Noct says easily enough, sipping from the mug in his hands. “Just had an off day yesterday, I guess. Though I still think it’ll go fine if I wing it,” he mutters rebelliously. Iggy’s eyebrows go up.

“Fortunately, we will never have to find out.”

###

So Prompto loses Noct to Iggy for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. And when Iggy’s finally satisfied with Noct’s answers to every conceivable question the First Secretary might ask, Gladio pulls him away for training. Prompto doesn’t see him again until after sunset, when the whole team rolls out to do a few commissions.

Some last day off, Prompto thinks to himself, sullenly. To his complete lack of surprise, it turns out that it sucks enormously, being the only one who can see the anvil that’s about to fall on their heads. He doesn’t know how Noct managed it.

And then somehow they’re already walking into the diplomat’s office. Standing stiffly at attention with the others, all Prompto can feel is despair. After all that big talk, the first disaster is at the doorstep and he’s done all of _nothing_ to avert it. He feels worse than useless.

“I _really_ have to talk to you,” he tells Noct desperately, when the meeting adjourns. Noct shoots him a startled stare.

“Not really the time,” he says. “We can talk after I’ve won over Leviathan.”

“But—”

But nothing. Noct is already gone, gunning it for the altar.

“Doesn’t he need backup—”

“We are needed here, Prompto,” Iggy says firmly. “You must trust in your king. Noctis will be fine.”

Sure, _Noct_ will be fine, he wants to wail, right into Iggy’s calm, knowing face. But what about Luna? What about the city? What about _you_?

They've barely started running before they get split up, Iggy blown off the bridge and into the canals. He gets back in touch not long after, sounding utterly focused and only slightly put out, to tell them to _aid in the evacuation efforts and then get to Noct_.

 _Don’t put on the ring_ , Propto wants to tell him, without context, and leave Iggy to wrestle with the implications. But he still doesn’t know _why_ Iggy put on the Ring of the Lucii. He’s pretty sure the lifelong advisor to the king-to-be knows the risks. Who is he to second-guess the choices of the team’s tactical genius? He hesitates.

“Be safe,” Iggy’s voice crackles through his earpiece, and he’s gone.

###

When an Empire skymobile goes whizzing over their heads, Gladio knocks it out of the sky with one hell of a home-run swing.

“Got you something,” he says. Prompto looks down at the smoking heap of black steel and then back up at Gladio.

“ _Me_?”

“You’re good with machines, right?”

Prompto _is_ good with machines, yes. But this thing looks like a deathtrap. He hesitates, and Gladio levels a glare at him.

“Do you wanna help Noct or not?”

He’s right. If Prompto wants even the slimmest chance of saving Luna _or_ Iggy — not to mention supporting Noct — he’s gonna need to be moving a lot faster. This thing is his best shot. Prompto squares his jaw and nods.

“You go ahead,” he says, “I’ll catch up. Sorry, big guy, but there’s no way this thing can hold your weight.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gladio snorts. And then he’s gone, pounding through an advancing platoon of approaching troopers and scattering them like bowling pins.

Prompto bites his lip and turns to his work.

Astrals, but this is madness. He doesn’t know how to fly a _kite_ , much less a military-grade skymobile, but he’s just going to have to figure it out. He runs his hands over the dashboard. There’s no keyslot, but there’s a dial with three (unmarked) settings, and a couple of articulated handgrips that might serve as the gas and the brakes.

Prompto needs maybe twenty minutes to pry back the front panel and figure out how to operate this stupid hunk of technomagic. He has none minutes. His friends need him now.

Gunfire rattles from the alley behind him. Prompto can dismount and defend, or he can drive.

“No time like the present,” he mutters, and guns it.

“I’m headed for Noct!” he shouts into his earpiece, whooping at the way the wind whips the words from his mouth. “Guu— _ahh_ , sorry, I’m — ah, two minutes!”

“We’ll get him in position,” Gladio’s gravely voice vows. “Just don’t drop him.”

###

Prompto catches the prince mid-fall, because he is a complete fucking superhero.

“I gotta get to the harbor,” Noct tells him, breathless.

“I’m on it!”

A shuddering tendril of water with two curved horns and a heron’s pointed beak comes thundering toward them, like the wrath of the sea made solid. Prompto only has time to squeak before Noct’s blade materializes in his hand. With one powerful blow, he sends the tentacle crashing to earth in a cascade of glittering salt spray. Because Noct is the _actual_ superhero.

“Hah!” Prompto shouts, hopped up on adrenaline and half-ready to fight the Leviathan himself. “You’re so fucking _cool_!!”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Noct scoffs.

They’re nearly at the Altar, which means that now’s his chance — his _only_ chance.

Prompto opens his mouth and remembers what Future-Noct said about providence, and waterfalling consequences, and the literal end of the world. And in darker, uglier corners of his mind, he thinks about love and loss. _I liked Luna too_ , that older, greyer Noct had admitted. _I was really gonna marry her, you know? (But now that she’s gone_ , he didn’t have to add, because really it went without saying, _now that she’s dead, I only have eyes for you._ ) In every timeline, Noct made his choice. If Luna lives, Prompto ends up alone.

But Prompto also remembers finding a little white dog, and how the Oracle diligently replied to all his letters for _months_ afterwards, at length, no less, even though thirteen-year-old Prompto _definitely_ had nothing interesting to say. So there was never a choice at all. It doesn’t matter what it might mean for the world, or for Prompto. He can’t just let her die.

“Noct,” he says, closing in on a serpent big enough to swallow the sun and come back for seconds. “I — had a vision.”

“What?” Noct asks, startled. “What are you—”

“Just listen, okay?” he pleads. “Ardyn is here. He’s gonna target Luna. Keep him away from her. If he gets too close, she dies.”

Noct gapes at him, drenched and dripping and bathed in blue light, and for a second Prompto thinks he’s going to argue. Instead, he shrugs.

“Okay.”

The next thrashing rope of living glass to slam into them nearly knocks Noct clear off his perch. Prompto surges forward, clamps a hand around Noct’s forearm and yanks him back up just in time to see the Leviathan Herself surging up from the depths. The Tidemother is bigger than life and older than time, like every hurricane and tidal wave and riptide rolled into one screeching, baying titan, and Prompto should probably get out of here if he doesn’t want to literally _immediately_ die.

“Can you reach?” he asks desperately. “I gotta—” _—find Luna, get her to safety; find Iggy, keep him away from the ring_. But Noct isn’t listening. With a last wild grin, he flings his blade and dissolves in a shower of blue light.

“I love you,” Prompto mutters to the dashboard. “You’re the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Please don’t die.”

Then he squeezes the trigger and rockets back toward the city.

###

He wanted to head for Luna first, but he can’t get near her. She stands at the heart of the storm, wreathed in a pillar of white flame. Water and stone slash the air around her, sea and sky and land all churned into a whirling slurry of death. Each chunk of earth that thunders by Prompto’s head is big enough to flatten a small village and gods help him, he is _so_ out of his league.

“Iggy?” he calls into his mic. “Where are you?”

“I’m hea—( _scrrrcklackle_ )—arbor,” his voice rattles from the earpiece.

“One more time?”

“( _scrrrrck_ )—to the _harbor_ ,” Iggy repeats, less patiently.

“I’ll meet you there!”

He glances up in time to see Leviathan knock Noct clear out of the air, sending him splashing into the sea. Before he can freak out, the prince is already teleporting away, vanishing a second before the goddess can crash down on top of him.

 _Trust in your king_ , Iggy’s voice reminds him.

“Easier said than done,” he mutters.

He circles for a minute, waiting for his moment. The next time Leviathan dives into the sea, he doesn’t stick around to see where she’ll breach. He guns it for the pillar of light.

His aim is perfect but he whiffs the landing, sending the skymobile skidding over sodden stone. Prompto manages to bail right before his ride goes splashing into the drink. He tumbles heels-over-head and lands on his back like an overturned beetle. When his vision clears, he’s staring up at the Oracle, who’s blinking down at him with an expression of serene bemusement.

“Luna,” he says dizzily, and then blanches. “I mean — Lady Lunafreya! I mean, uh… You’re in danger!!”

“Yes,” she agrees, glancing up at the hurricane swirling around them and then back down at him. “I'd noticed.”

It’s _so_ not what matters right now but _astrals_ she’s pretty, like a statue carved from pure sunlight. The Oracle is slender and willowy and deceptively fragile-looking, except that no one could look at her and think her fragile. The gleam of unflinching resolve in her steady gaze is a perfect match for Noct’s.

“No,” he says desperately. “I mean — I don’t mean to contradict you, my — uh, lady, I just mean — sorry, let me start over. I’m Prompto. Um, Noct’s friend.”

Lunafreya’s eyes narrow. She steps over him and raises her trident, and a column of white fire rockets toward the heavens just in time to repel a fanged maw bigger than Prompto’s apartment complex.

“I know who you are, Prompto,” she tells him, with a glimmer of amusement. “We’ve corresponded. Did you forget?”

“Of course not!!” he gasps, mortified. “I just — I mean — I thought _you_ forgot!! You’re the Oracle and I’m just—”

“—the right hand of the chosen king,” she says reproachfully. “And Noctis’ trusted friend. You need not degrade yourself on my account, Prompto. Now speak. What warning do you carry?”

Now’s his chance. “I can’t explain how I know this,” he says desperately. “But we have to get out of here. If you stay, you’ll—”

“—die?” she finishes for him, to his shock. When she glances back, she’s smiling. “My dearest companion said the same. As did my brother. Do you fear death, Prompto?”

“I — what?” he asks, bewildered. This conversation is _really_ not going how he planned. “I — guess?”

“Yet it is all our fate, in the end,” she says dreamily, still radiating that aura of perfect calm. “We cannot choose the form it takes. We may only decide what is right, and whether or not to act. You have not the strength to weather a blow from Leviathan, and yet you kneel at her Altar, in the very heart of her fury. Why have you come here?”

“Because — you’ll die!” he sputters, feeling impossibly small in the face of all this warm, unwavering compassion.

“You have come to protect the ones you hold dear,” she says gently. “And should I not do the same?”

Prompto waves his hands helplessly.

“But—” he starts to protest. Lunafreya holds up one hand, cutting him off mid-word.

“Besides,” she says, eyes creased with mischief. “How do you intend to rescue me, Prompto? Shall I stand on your back as you swim to shore?”

“I—” he starts to say, and then sags. “I _had_ a skymobile,” he sighs.

“It looked like a very nice one,” Luna says gravely. “Now keep behind me, Prompto. Whatever befalls me, you may not die here. Noctis still needs you.”

“But what about you?” he asks pitifully.

“There is power in me yet,” she tells him, eyes blazing with the same blue flame that burns in Noct. “Power enough to shield you and Noctis both. My fate may be written, but _I am not dead yet_ ,” she says fiercely. “While there is life in my body, I will not let you fall.”

There’s a crash of thunder as Leviathan strikes, only this time Noct doesn’t warp clear. He takes the blow head-on and goes flying, limp as a ragdoll.

“ _Noct_!” Prompto screams, but Luna is already moving, striding forward and lifting her trident. But before she can act, her stance falters. She chokes on air and falls to her knees, gasping.

“Luna!” Prompto cries, stumbling to her side. If he had Iggy’s training in royal etiquette he might keep a respectful distance, but Prompto is just a commoner, so he’s already got one hand on her back. “Are you okay? What can I do??”

“My body is — failing,” she chokes out, thin and strained. “The ring takes its toll. But I must— Noctis—”

“Here,” Prompto says, helping her to her feet. “Here, let me—”

“Now isn’t that sweet?” a rich, throaty voice interrupts, and Prompto’s blood turns to ice. "The king's lady love and his loyal hound, arm in arm at the end of the world. Rivals in love and allies in arms, all the same.”

Prompto whirls and aims. His finger is already pressing down as the trigger materializes in his grasp, but the bullets whistle through empty air.

“Aww,” Ardyn croons from directly behind him. “And here I thought we were getting along so well.” Prompto jerks away and aims, but suddenly his gun is a living, thrashing snake in his hands. He yelps as it squirms free, leaving him emptyhanded.

“Bad dog,” Ardyn drawls. “If you hope to be of any use, you may wish to learn a few new tricks. Now about that ring,” he purrs, turning to Luna.

“Get away from her!!” Prompto shouts, bounding forward to throw himself at Ardyn, but the chancellor’s body is like smoke. Prompto hurtles clean through it and out the other side, sending him stumbling into the sea.

“On second thought,” Ardyn says sweetly, “you let him have it.”

The surging current yanks Prompto underwater, flipping him heels-over-head and smashing his skull against the side of the altar. When he surfaces, he can see red blooming from Luna’s belly, a crimson stain that grows larger the longer he stares.

“No!” he shouts, breathless, before the sea pulls him under again. Somehow, the next time the tide batters him against the rocks, he manages to seize hold of them. By now Luna is staggering to her feet, glaring her defiance.

“I _will_ pass the ring to the rightful king,” she vows, seizing Ardyn's hand in her own. Light blooms from the place where they touch, and all at once, Luna’s face softens. "When the prophecy is fulfilled," she tells him, strangely tender. "All in thrall to the darkness shall know peace."

Prompto's never seen Ardyn wearing anything but that smarmy, superior smirk. He's not wearing it now. The Chancellor snarls and shoves her away.

“How sweet,” he croons as he stalks toward his airship. “But please, Lady Lunafreya. You first. And as for you,” he sneers at Prompto, still dragging himself up the steps. “You may live, for now, by my grace. You still have a role to play. But just to be safe…”

Prompto flinches away as Ardyn kicks out, catching him in the temple with a blow that makes his vision go white around the edges. Blinking dizzily, he tries to fall back but already Ardyn is kicking again, dispassionately, like you might stomp an insect.

As color fades from his world, the last thing he sees is Ardyn’s smile.

###

Prompto failed.

He failed in every way that you can fail, and it’s everyone else who’s suffering for it.

He woke up surrounded by bodies: Luna pale and lifeless; Iggy unmoving, the skin around his eyes burned black as ash. Noct limp as a ragdoll, his hand still clutching Luna’s. Prompto had the chance to save them all, and one by one they slipped between his fingers. Prompto couldn’t save anyone. He couldn’t even save himself.

Noct is drowning in grief, so dark behind the eyes that Prompto can hardly bear to look at him. Gladio clearly has no idea how he's supposed to keep them all alive without Iggy's keen eye, and he is _really_ not coping. And Iggy… To Prompto’s shame, Iggy’s holding it together a lot better than the rest of them. It makes sense, in a way. Iggy succeeded where Prompto failed. He achieved what he set out to: he protected his king. And all he had to lose was his sight.

Prompto gets why Noct is shutting them out, just like he gets why Gladio is picking fights and lashing out. They’re all just trying to keep their heads above water, and petty squabbling is a lot less painful than actually grappling with their grief. Prompto failed them all, and now the best he can do is keep out of their way.

He gets it now. He was never going to be strong enough to change the future. He shouldn’t even _be_ here, toddling around at the heels of all these legendary heroes, trying to bite at the ankles of gods. Noct is the hero of this story. He’s the one with the power to bend fate. Prompto was only ever supposed to be a courier, passing the message to someone who could actually _do_ something about it.

“Hey, Noct?” he says cringingly. From across the aisle, Noct’s eyes flick toward him, utterly cold.

“What.”

“Um — I _really_ have to talk to you,” he says. “It’s really important. Can we—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Gladio barks, striding out of nowhere. Prompto gapes. Obviously _Prompto_ knows just how badly he fucked up in Altissia, but no one else should.

It takes him a minute to realize that Gladio’s talking to Noct.

Slowly, Noct lifts his head to stare.

“ _What_?”

“We’re not stopping in Tenebrae,” Gladio rumbles. “You need to grow up and get over it.”

And suddenly they’re shouting at each other, head to head, inches apart in a crowded cabin, and Gladio is calling Noct a coward for _no goddamn reason_ except that he’s hurting, that they’re all hurting, and that Gladio thinks that slowing down to process your grief is a form of surrender. Prompto tries to get between them and gets cuffed in the jaw for his trouble, like Gladio’s disciplining a dog. All the while he can feel Ignis _burning_ with frustration, because Ignis is the only godsdamn one of them who knows how to compartmentalize his feelings instead of repressing them until they burst in a concussive blast of bladed words and shattered bone.

There’s no talking to Noct after that, because he’s nowhere to be found.

Prompto hopes to get the chance in Cartanica. But the whole time they’re searching for the Royal Tomb, Noct races ahead like he’s actively trying to leave them behind. Unfortunately, Gladio would rather chase Noct and bark insults than actually _slow down and_ _help_ , which means Prompto’s the only one left to stand at Iggy’s side and keep him on his feet. Iggy lost his sight _yesterday_ and already he’s been thrown in the deep end, sloshing through treacherous crags of waterslick mud, and — and — and what is Prompto supposed to do, just leave him to trip off a cliff and die? So he hangs back, hopeless, helpless, and promises himself that he’ll tell Noct what he needs to know when they’re back on the train.

“Prompto,” Ignis says quietly, as Prompto guides him to the shallowest path through a trough of pond scum.

“Yeah, Iggy?”

“Thank you,” he says stiffly. “For — your patience. And for keeping a cooler head than our companions,” he adds, betraying only a trace of bitterness. Prompto actually snorts.

“Of course, dude. Just wish there was more I could do. If I have to hear Gladio shout about leaving people behind while literally, _currently_ leaving us behind, I think I might scream."

“He is the king’s shield,” Ignis says calmly, with limitless patience. “He cannot leave Noct’s side. He trusts that you will stay by mine.”

Prompto wants to argue, but there’s no point. “Well, he’s right about that,” he says instead. “Careful with this part, it’s slippery.”

###

When they reach the bottom, Iggy proves himself by saving all their asses, which probably means a lot to him even though from Prompto’s perspective, Iggy’s already proved himself enough for a lifetime. Then there’s only the long, slippery climb back to the top.

“Okay, how about… 2 o’clock?” Prompto asks, a little distracted. Noct has calmed down a bit by now, but he’s _definitely_ still moving too fast. Iggy's face tenses as he turns his head to listen to the slow, arhythmic sloshing up ahead and to their right.

“Shieldshears?” he guesses.

“Nice, Iggy, damn! Got it in one.”

“It’s a start,” Ignis sighs. His foot catches on a tree root and he stumbles, nearly pitching over before Prompto flings himself in the way. For a heartbeat after Iggy straightens, Prompto can see just a glimmer of the helplessness, the all-consuming frustration that hides behind his cool, collected mask. Then Iggy grimaces and shakes his head.

“Thank you, Prompto,” he says, perfectly controlled.

“You don’t have to say it every time,” Prompto says miserably. “I’m doing the bare minimum here.”

“So you say,” Iggy says drily. “Yet my lifelong comrades are doing a good deal less. Not for the first time, I find myself appreciating your many good qualities. I was — trepidatious, as you might recall, when Noctis insisted on bringing you along. But once again, you've proven yourself quite indispensable."

“Aw, don’t say that,” Prompto wails, half-paralyzed with guilt. “I should have— I mean, I was _right there_ and I couldn’t even—”

"Noctis bears the fate of our world on his back," Iggy says, with a curious, melancholy distance. "It is — heavier than I hoped it would be. Far heavier than it should be," he says, pain flashing across his face before he wrestles it back under wraps.

Prompto stares at him, mind racing. Iggy just lost so much. It would be unfair to make his burden any heaver, but… Iggy’s also the strongest person he knows. He’s stronger than Noct, even, whose resolve never wavers but who’s never had enough courage to face his own feelings head-on. If anyone’s strong enough to bend the future to his will, surely it’s Iggy.

“Hey,” he starts to say, and then Gladio’s face pops out from the platform overhead.

“Train’s leaving!” he shouts. “You guys coming, or do I have to carry you?”

Prompto darts an uncertain look at Iggy and then remembers that he can’t see it. Somehow, Iggy answers his unspoken question anyway.

“You can pick up your pace,” he sighs, resigned. “I shall cling to you if I must.”

“Sorry, Iggy,” Prompto says, and he books it for the train.

###

“Excuse me,” Prompto mutters as he shoulders past another passenger. There’s no time for his usual cringing, deferential politeness; no time for social anxiety or social mores, not when Prompto is maybe ten minutes away from getting thrown off a moving train.

He’s been preparing for this. He spent every second of his rare downtime poring over his pictures, sorting through his lovingly shelved, carefully filed memories to find the one that will free him from his fate: something private enough to disarm Noct, but not so intrusive as to incense him.

He knows what’s at stake. If he lets Noct get close, he dies. He loves Noct, but the prince has never been some paragon of virtue, and right now he’s wild with grief. (Prompto can’t blame him. If it was Noct that Ardyn took, Prompto would do the same and worse.)

So he’s been preparing, poring over the train’s emergency exits, mapping escape routes and practicing his lines. He knows, now, just how hard it is to change the future. It's as though time comes with its own innate inertia, and the more speed it gathers, the harder it gets to knock it from its track. He knows what to expect. He knows what to do. He’s ready.

Then he bursts into the next cabin and slams right into Noct.

“Noct—” he starts to say, quick and urgent, and then the words die in his throat because when Noct turns to face him, his eyes go dark.

 _Shit_. Prompto’s not ready. He could prepare for a lifetime and he’d still not be ready to see Noct look at him like this: not just with hate but with revulsion, like Prompto is some kind of _thing_ , a knot of putrid, festering tissue not even worth scraping off the sole of his boot.

“Listen to me,” he starts to say, but it’s like his tongue is too big, slow and clumsy and swollen fat against his teeth, and he just can’t get the words out.

“There’s not a single thing I want to hear from you,” Noct snarls, drawing his blade. Prompto knows what that means. He trips backwards and stumbles away, back through the doorway and into the next car over. He practiced for this, he _knew_ what to say but it’s like Noct’s livid, hungry hate has burned every other thought from his mind, leaving nothing but ash and smoke and dread.

“Your Zomblasters hi-score is counterfeit,” he bursts out as he backpedals, fast and urgent. “You asked me to write your name on my win and I think you were joking but now everyone thinks you’re the best Zomblaster in the whole city.”

“You — what?” Noct says, tripping a half a pace backwards in sheer disorientation. Then his eyes focus, and his lips peel back like a sabertusk’s. “Don’t fuck with me,” he snarls, advancing. “Stay out of my head.”

 _Gods_ , but it’s fucking scary. Prompto has seen Noct wreak a hundred kinds of violence on a hundred kinds of monsters, but it’s different when it’s pointed at _him_. Even knowing what he knows — that Noct can’t see him at all; that Noct thinks he’s squaring off with Luna’s killer — he can’t ignore the hollow, hungry cold that swells behind his chest. It _hurts_. He was supposed to be ready but his best friend in the whole world is standing a swordslength away, looking at Prompto like he _hates_ him, and it _hurts_.

“The first time I slept over I stole a Cup Noodle,” he babbles, and then realizes that Noct wouldn’t even know about that. “Wait, shit, not that one. Uh — I once peed my pants cause I got shut in a locker for a whole night. The first fish you caught at the Vesperpool was a vesper gar. I told you that plaid was in fashion when I got that suit for homecoming but honestly Noct in hindsight, I _really_ don’t think it was.”

Noct is staring openly now, flickering between suspicion and disorientation and sheer, carnivorous bloodthirst. “Why are you doing this?” he demands. “It won’t save your life.”

Prompto cringes.

“This is gonna sound really crazy,” he says helplessly. “But — please, Noct I swear, he _is_ messing with your head, but he’s not rooting around in your memories.”

Noct bares his teeth and swings. Prompto barely ducks in time to send the blade whistling over his head.

“It’s — there’s a spell on you!!” he says frantically. “Do you really think Ardyn would just swing by to spar without some fucky agenda? It’s obviously a trap!!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Noct growls. Prompto flails at the air, frantic.

“He knows how angry you are, dude, he knows you’re not thinking straight and he wants to use that. Please, Noct, _please_ just think about this for more than a second!”

Noct’s glare looks no less murderous, but now there’s something new behind it: the faintest flicker of uncertainty. Prompto seizes on it like a lifeline.

“He’s some kind of fucked-up time wizard, dude,” he says reasonably. “There’s no _way_ he’d show himself if there was any chance you could actually take him out. Right?”

The uncertainty is growing, thank the astrals. Prompto presses his eyes shut, his relief palpable, and then he remembers that Noct is still trying to kill him and yanks them open. Noct is staring, the heat of his rage giving way to cold calculation.

“You want me to believe that you’re not really Ardyn,” he says flatly.

“Yes.”

“That you’re actually Prompto.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Prompto agrees emphatically, tears springing to his eyes and fogging his vision. “I don’t know how to make you believe me but _yes_ , Noct, I—”

“This is the _least_ clever plan you’ve ever thought up,” Noct sneers. “If you were actually Prompto, how would you know I thought you weren’t? How would he know what to say?”

 _Now’s his chance_. “The same way I knew what was going to happen before,” he says desperately. “The same way I knew to warn you in Altissia.”

People say that Noct is hard to read and Prompto can’t relate. Noct’s emotions are written all over his face, vivid as the first stroke on a white canvas: hate and hurt, grief and rage, violence and despair. But he can tell that Noct is thinking about it.

“You’re saying I can’t trust my eyes,” Noct says, armoring himself in cold, flat detachment. “But if that’s true, it’s just as likely that _that_ Prompto was a fake — an illusion you wove to win my trust, here and now.”

“Okay but if Ardyn wanted you to believe he was Prompto and he could actually _look_ like Prompto, why would he show up here wearing his own face??”

Noct hesitates.

“I — don’t know,” he admits. And then, to Prompto’s absolute, all-consuming relief, he sheathes his blade.

Prompto’s not an idiot. He doesn’t move an inch. Just because Noct isn’t _actively_ trying to kill him doesn’t mean that he believes him. It only means that there’s just enough uncertainty that he’s unwilling to chance it.

“What can I do to prove it?” he asks, palms up, head lowered submissively. “I can answer anything, or — tell you something you wouldn’t know and have Iggy back me up.”

Noct frowns.

“This is so messed up,” he says, glaring again, but more normally — impatience, not bloodlust. “You sound exactly like him. How am I supposed to — _ugh_. Fine,” he huffs, relenting. “Prompto slept over after homecoming. What did he tell me when we got home?”

Prompto’s brow furrows.

“I didn’t sleep over after homecoming,” he says, confused. “We tried to sneak me in, but Iggy caught us and sent me home.”

“Okay,” Noct says, impassive. “But what did he tell me?”

Prompto blushes violently.

“I said I didn’t care that I couldn’t get a date,” he mutters, scuffing his sneakers against the linoleum floor. “That I’d rather go with you anyway, cause y— cause you’re the most important person in my life.”

Noct stares at Prompto, taking in his shuffling feet, his fidgeting fingers. And then, to Prompto’s astoundment, he laughs.

“This is so fucking _weird_!” Noct snickers, and then sobers. “I — okay. It’s not like I believe you,” he says, before Prompto can relax. “But I buy that — I don’t know. Something’s going on. You really sound _just_ like him,” he adds, accusatory.

“The voice, maybe,” Prompto says defensively. “Not the cadence. I _know_ I don’t talk like that guy.”

“I guess not,” Noct says, thoughtful. “Astrals. Okay, so — what, he wants me to kill Prompto? _Why_?”

Prompto frowns, thinking about how best to go about this. “He wants a hostage,” he says. “To hold over your head. But he wants it to be your fault. He wants to break all your toys, and he — he wants you to blame yourself.”

“And you know this _how_?”

Prompto heaves a sigh.

“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” he says plaintively. “Back in Altissia. Something, um — something happened to me. Something pretty insanely weird. I—”

The whole train shudders. Panicked cries filter in from the neighboring compartments as gunfire splits the quiet. Noct’s face twists into a snarl.

“So this was just a distraction—”

“No!” Prompto yelps. “No, I swear! Shit, Noct, I — aren’t there like, a million better ways to distract you? Ugh, there’s no _time_ ,” he laments, squeezing at his temples. “Okay, uh.. Where do you want me? You can tie me up somewhere, if you like, or I can go and help—”

Before he can finish the sentence, the door behind him bursts open, and Prompto watches _himself_ step through it.

“You??” Fake-Prompto gasps, stepping back and raising a hand to his mouth in mock alarm. (He’s not even doing a very good _job_ , Prompto thinks irritably. If Noct wasn’t blind with bloodlust, surely he’d notice. Prompto doesn’t move like that, all slow and deliberate.)

Noct stares at (real)-Prompto, _hard_ , and then swings his gaze back at the imposter.

“We’ve got him cornered,” he tells fake-Prompto coldly. “But I’m pretty sure he’s got something up his sleeve. Do you still have the bioblaster?”

“Of course,” Ardyn purrs, as the real Prompto tries not to react. He hasn’t used the bioblaster in weeks, not since he accidentally poisoned Gladio seven times in one fight and the big guy lost his patience and winged it into a lake. (They fished it out, but Prompto didn’t bother patching it up, lest Gladio throw _him_ in next time.)

To his relief, after fake-Prompto draws what is unmistakably the bioblaster, Noct’s face hardens.

“So it’s true,” he says, prowling forward to slip between them. Ardyn’s eyebrows go up.

“Oh, I wouldn’t leave your back to him—”

“Well, I would,” Noct says roughly. There’s a glitter of blue static and a blur of motion, so dizzyingly fast that Prompto’s eye can barely follow, and suddenly there’s a sword sprouting from fake-Prompto’s gut.

Fake-Prompto looks down at it and then back up, his blue eyes round with helpless hurt. He opens his mouth to speak but all he can manage is a wet wheezing sputter.

Noct’s eyes go wide. For an instant there’s a lifetime of pain splashed across his face, raw and ragged as a wound. Then he shakes his head fiercely, forcefully, and glares at the imposter.

“You’re not him,” he growls, and yanks the blade loose.

For a moment Fake-Prompto just stands there, swaying, choking, and Prompto has to admit that it is probably the most fucked up thing he’s ever seen in his entire fucked up life. Then purple flame licks out from the puncture, and the wound closes, and Fake-Prompto smiles.

“Innnnteresting,” he purrs, looking at Noct and then at Prompto with lurid, almost lascivious interest. “It seems I’ve underestimated you, _Your Majesty_. And your little dog too,” he adds, with a condescending glance at Prompto.

“That _dog_ sniffed out your bullshit,” Noct snarls, and swings.

This time, his blade catches Ardyn — still wearing Prompto’s face — right in the nape of the neck. It cuts through him like an engine blade through butter, so clean that you can barely see the seam. Prompto shudders. Ardyn laughs.

“Good _boy_!” he tells Prompto warmly, in flagrant disregard to the fact that his vocal cords are fully detached from his windpipe. “ _Very_ impressive. Even a heap of salvaged scrap can learn a new trick now and again, hmm? If only it would be enough to save you,” he adds, sticking out his bottom lip in a showy, theatrical pout that looks uncomfortably familiar on Prompto’s face.

Then he turns to Noct.

“Clearly, I overestimated your feelings for that poor dear Oracle,” Ardyn sighs, sanctimonious, with Prompto’s voice. “I thought that your grief might drive you to action, but _now_ I understand. Your tastes lie elsewhere,” he says, winking suggestively. “Why pledge yourself to your equal when you could instead keep the company of a sniveling sycophant, whose drab plumage makes yours shine all the brighter? I suppose you never cared for her at all,” he sighs, clasping his hands in front of his chest.

Prompto can’t see Noct’s face but he _can_ see Noct’s arms shaking a little, his hands trembling, and _that_ he cannot abide.

“Shut up,” he snarls, stiff-legged and shrill with hate. “You don’t know _anything_.”

Somehow, that seems to gentle Noct. His shaking stills, and his stance steadies. Smooth and impassive, he whirls and cleaves Ardyn straight down the middle, from the crown of his head clear through to his abdomen.

Purple flame blooms from the seam, flooding the space with acrid smoke that makes Prompto’s lungs burn and eyes water.

"The crystal awaits, dear Noctis," echoes a rich, melodious voice, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Perhaps you can still save them all. Though you'll have to be quick. Who _knows_ what might happen if it’s left too long in my care?"

When the smoke clears, Ardyn is gone, but the echoes of his laughter linger.

Noct shakes himself off and then glances back. When he meets Prompto’s eyes, he flinches.

“...Prompto?” he says, sounding thin and strained and about eight hundred years old.

“Gladio threw the bioblaster in a lake,” Prompto says promptly. “But I can still back you up.”

A quick, grateful smile flickers over Noct’s face.

“That was probably the most messed up thing I’ve ever done,” he says. “Now come on. You can explain after we save the day.”

###

The next two hours are a whirlwind. Prompto doesn’t have time to process his relief before they fall into the familiar rhythm of combat, a beat he knows as well as the thrum of his own heart. Prompto strikes and Noct parries; Noct advances and Prompto falls back. When Prompto falters Noct is there, potion at the ready. When Noct hesitates, Prompto’s a step behind him, painting the air with black gunsmoke and the percussive clatter of mechanical death.

All the while, Prompto can feel hurt and hate burning at the back of his throat. In another life, in another timeline, Noct was fighting back to back with _Ardyn_ , who was wearing Prompto’s skin like an ill-fitting suit, and Noct didn’t even notice. In another world, Ardyn laughed and high-fived Noct at all the wrong moments and Noct didn’t bat an eye. It makes him feel smaller than dust, lower than dirt. Prompto could tell when Noct was swapped out for an only _slightly_ different version of Noct, and Noct can’t even tell when there’s a perfect stranger wearing Prompto as a coat.

 _You can’t be mad at Noct for something he didn’t even do_ , he tells himself reasonably. Which is true, and does literally nothing to comfort him.

###

Time stood still when Prompto was squaring off with a murderous, blood-hungry Noct. Now it trips forward at thrice its usual clip, as if trying to make up the loss. The team leaps into action to evacuate the train and then hurtles back into motion with the help of Aranea and her trustiest men, who steer them boldly to Gralea and the crystal.

When they’re moving again, Prompto thinks they’ll finally get the chance to talk. Instead, then the temperature drops by about six hundred degrees in the span of six seconds. Suddenly they’re fighting for their lives in the ruined corpse of the goddess of ice, once mighty enough to fell whole civilizations, now a heap of frostburned rot.

The air is so cold that Prompto can barely breathe. With every breath he can feel icy fingers close around his lungs and _squeeze_ , crushing the life from his withered chest. His fingers turn stiff as wood and twice as useless, so he has to use both hands just to pull the trigger of his gun. He can barely even move his _eyes_ , making him wonder if the wet goo in his eye sockets has somehow frozen solid. Every orifice feels like a wound.

They make it through somehow, like they always do. Gladio has to physically pick Prompto up and put him down on the train, since he can’t make his knees bend far enough to take the step. But he’s alive, at the least, if only just. Swaying at the threshold, he can feel his focus fading, his vision going weird and wobbly.

 _Glad that’s over_ , he thinks dizzily, and the world goes dark.

###

When he comes to, the train is in motion.

“Wh-” he stutters, shivering. When he looks down, he’s surprised to see that he’s got Noct’s jacket draped over him, and Gladio’s over that. “Wh-wh-what happened?” he asks. Across the aisle, Iggy raises his eyebrows at him.

“We had an uninvited guest,” he says drily. “The chancellor. Fortunately Noct was able to form a contract with Shiva, who froze him in his tracks. Quite literally, as it happens.”

“Wh-wh—” Prompto huffs a breath into his palms, tries again. “Wh— where’s—”

“Noctis? I believe he headed that way,” Iggy tells him, gesturing with his chin toward the next car over. “He seemed rather shaken by his encounter with the goddess, though he would not speak of it. Perhaps you’ll have better luck,” he adds, with only a trace of bitterness.

“Thanks, Iggy.”

Sure enough, when he opens the door to the next car, he can see Noct slouching by the window, holding his head in his hands. Clearly, he wants to be left alone. In a perfect world, Prompto would do just that. But in _this_ world, he’s sitting on a ticking time bomb of crucial information, and he can’t afford to put it off any longer.

“Noct,” he calls, still shivering a little as he shuffles closer. “I have to talk to you.”

And then there’s the screech of brakes and the sound of breaking glass. On either side of the aisle, the windows shatter, and the daemons come boiling through.

###

The good news is, they make it to Gralea.

Wait, no, the _really_ good news is that they don’t die. The _fairly_ good news is that the Regalia goes skidding into the Imperial Capital a heartbeat before the gates slam shut behind it.

The bad news is, two seconds after Noct and Prompto duck under the smoking wreckage of a derailed train and step out the other side, the whole thing collapses behind them. He and Noct are fine. Iggy and Gladio are out of reach.

“Are you all right?” Iggy’s voice calls from the other side of the smoking wreckage. “Noctis? Prompto? Answer me!!”

“Fine,” Prompto croaks, and then clears his throat. “We’re fine! Both of us!”

“Thank the gods,” he can hear Iggy murmur.

“But there’s no way across,” Gladio growls back.

“We’ll simply have to convene further in,” Ignis sighs. “What choice do we have? Noctis,” he says sharply, and Noct, who was knocked off his feet by the blast and is now splayed out in front of the smoking wreckage, looking more than a little shell-shocked, jolts to attention.

“Sup?”

“Look out for each other,” Iggy says. “Watch your backs, and watch each other’s. Stay safe. _Don’t do anything foolish_. We’ll gather what intel we can and meet you further in. All right?”

“Right,” Noct says quietly. “See you on the other side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick note for those of yall who read these: honestly, as the creator-god of this pocket universe, i feel pretty shitty about not saving Luna!! but grounding narrative choices in human nature (& in each character’s individual capacity) is something that is pretty important to me. believe it or not, when i outline a chapter, i don’t actually make a lot of decisions about how things will shake out -- for the most part, i set the stage & drop my faves onto it, and try to let them tell me what happens next. 
> 
> i was so torn about this one that i ended up playing all the way thru Episode Ignis for “research,” and it just felt like both Luna’s death and Iggy’s sacrifice were steered by larger forces and their own force of will, such that Prompto both couldn’t prevent them (bc he’s so far out of his freaking league) and couldn’t dissuade them (bc both were so resolved to stand by their king). it’s lame though! i’m definitely sulking a little over here like “some fix-it, everything’s still broken >:(“
> 
> anyway, don’t lose hope! things _will _change. it’s just not as easy as it looks for one sunshine boy to reroute history__


	5. the climb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys rush Zegnautus Keep. Prompto and Noct finally have The Talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> high highs low lows in this one y’all. enjoy the ride~

Prompto thought he’d seen the worst hell imaginable in the sodden filth under the Malacchi Hills, or the austere, waterslick tunnels of Steyliff Grove. He was wrong. The dungeons they’ve slogged through were only inhabited by daemons. Gralea is _infested_. The Lucian night draws daemons, but Gralea is the place it draws them from. This is the source of it all, their birthplace. ( _His birthplace_.)

Worst of all, they can't access the Armiger. Prompto lifts a few guns from the wreckage of their fallen foes and pointedly doesn’t speculate about why they come to life in his hands, even though they’re inert as stone for Noct.

Noct is stuck fighting with the Ring of the Lucii, which Prompto didn’t even know they _had_. It’s powerful — the first time Noct dodges an oncoming Reaper while wearing it, the daemon literally _disintegrates_ — but he can tell from Noct’s pained grimace that it hurts him to use it.

“Stop that,” he snaps, after watching Noct suck the life from a troop of goblins. Noct looks up, startled.

“Huh?”

“Stop using the ring! _Definitely_ don’t waste it on goblins, I can take those guys with one shot.”

Noct blinks at him, clearly thrown. Prompto rolls his eyes. Noct is always so shocked to find out that anyone else can see what he’s feeling.

“Obviously if we’re gonna die, do what you gotta do,” he says impatiently. “But you don’t have to torture yourself. Let me pick up the slack, okay? Don’t use that thing unless you have to.”

As Noct opens his mouth to argue, six wraiths rise from the floor ahead of them. Before he can lift a hand, Prompto’s already unloading on them. When the last of the daemons dissolves into black flame, he turns to find Noct watching him, a smile ticking at the corner of his mouth.

“Fine,” Noct says.

“Fine?”

“I’ll let you pick up the slack.”

Prompto doesn’t have time to answer before the screech of an Uttu splits the stillness. Noct has the audacity to roll his eyes.

“Go on then,” he sighs, flapping a hand at the monstrosity thundering toward them. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

###

It’s slow going.

Prompto loads and fires, loads and fires, tosses a potion to Noct and overclocks his semi-automatic until the muzzle shatters, shredding the fore-mandibles of an oncoming Arachnae and pulsing her slavering maw to wet black pulp. By the time they finally find a safe room — cramped barracks with a big steel door that _locks_ , thank the gods — Prompto’s ready to sleep for a hundred years.

Instead, Noct shoves him onto the nearest stiff, moldy cot and pins him to the spot with a hawkish glare.

“Okay,” he says. “Talk.”

“...About anything in particular?”

Noct rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I’d love to hear your opinion on the Altissian influence on mid-century modernism,” he snaps. “ _No_ , dumbass, not about anything. Talk about why you know so much. Tell me what you wanted to say three days ago.”

Ah. “Right,” Prompto says. “Makes sense. Yes. Okay. I…” He flops over backwards, covers his face with his hands and then yanks them away when he remembers that he’s drenched to the elbow in acidic daemon blood. “I don’t know where to start,” he moans.

The mattress shifts as Noct collapses beside him.

“You could try the beginning,” he suggests.

“Wow, I never woulda thought of that. Good thing I have you around to provide such elucidating—”

Noct rolls over and shoves a blood-crusted hand over Prompto’s mouth.

“Pff—” Prompto sputters. “ _Fine_ , you oaf. So much for royal _manners_. Okay, um…” He frowns, sifts through his options and takes careful aim. “Okay,” he says again, squaring his jaw. “Noct: you have a time traveling dog.”

The bed squeaks as Noct sits up. When Prompto cracks an eyelid to peek at him, he finds the prince staring.

“Yeah,” Noct agrees, eyes narrowing. “I do. How do you know that?”

“Because you told me,” Prompto says tiredly. Noct’s brow furrows.

“No I didn—”

Prompto can see the exact moment when Noct figures it out. His jaw goes slack, and his twilight eyes widen.

“You’ve—” the prince starts to say, breathless. “You mean you — you talked to _future me_??”

“Great guy,” Prompto says, nodding vigorously and only slightly hysterically. “Good manners, perfect face, great comedic timing. Kinda moody, though.”

Noct shoves him off the bed, sending him clattering to the floor.

“Pff,” Prompto snorts, and cracks up. “Sorry,” he wheezes. “Long day.”

“ _Yeah, I know_ ,” Noct says, with feeling. “Now what the hell did he tell you?”

###

Prompto catches Noct up.

Noct has it a little easier than Prompto did, cause a lot of the worst stuff is already behind them. Luna is dead. Iggy is blind. Prompto _didn’t_ get thrown off a train and tortured by Niffs, which is still the best news he’s heard all week. Really, all that’s left is Ardyn, and the crystal, and ten years of darkness. (Prompto’s real identity should probably be in there somewhere, too, but he just — he just — he _can’t_.)

It’s easier than it might have been, three days ago. It is still way, way too hard. Prompto knows, because it was just three days back that Future-Noct dumped all this weighty, crushing, weight-of-the-world stuff on him.

Fortunately, Noct has been preparing to bear the weight of the world since he was in diapers. He looks on in stoic silence as Prompto rambles and babbles and doubles on the stuff that he missed.

“So that’s it, then,” Noct says quietly, when Prompto’s done. “Even if everything goes perfectly and we get through here alive, I still get sucked into a crystal for ten years.”

“That’s… the impression I got, yeah,” Prompto says, scuffing his feet on the floor. “But — I mean, I’d started to wonder if it was all just predetermined, after Altissia. But it’s not. You were supposed to throw me off the train, and you didn’t. So — maybe we can still change stuff?”

Noct takes that in, expressionless. Someone who didn’t know him well might be encouraged by how calmly he was taking all this. Prompto knows better. Noct only turns to stone like this when he’s so overwhelmed that he can hardly think straight — when he fears that, if he let his emotions wash over him, he’d sink into the depths and never surface again. 

Behind that impassive mask, Noct is losing his entire mind. Which means it’s time for Prompto to get his shit together.

“Come on, dude!” he says with manic cheer, nudging Noct with his elbow. “I know it sounds dire, but it’s better than it sounds. Basically it means that in the absolute worst case scenario, you take a really long nap and then wake up and save the world. Those are like, your top two hobbies anyway!”

Noct holds his hollow stare for a beat longer, and then his mouth twitches.

“Right,” he says. “Love when I get to sleep through the end of days. Nothing more relaxing than catching some z’s while my kingdom falls to ruin.”

“Okay, I hear you, but that’s why we’re here!” Prompto points out. “The other you didn’t know what was coming, so he couldn’t stop it. But we _can_.”

Noct frowns, looking unusually helpless. Prompto hates seeing him like this.

“Noooct,” he whines, arms aching with the effort of _not_ wrapping them around his best friend. “We can fix it! Okay? We’re the ones who get the chance. So let’s make the most of it, yeah?”

For a moment, nothing changes. Noct keeps staring at the ground, looking wretched and ragged and painfully small. Then he wraps both arms around his own chest and shudders.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Yeah. Let’s see what we can do, I guess.”

It’s too much; Prompto can’t bear it. If he has to watch Noct look like this for a second longer, his whole chest will freeze over. He throws caution to the winds and flings himself at him, bowling Noct over in a violent tackle and squeezing with crushing force.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he swears, and somehow he means it, even though he’s just one useless manufacturing error and Noct is the chosen champion of their whole godsdamned world. “Okay? We’ll take it one step at a time. If you have to go into the crystal, it’ll be our last resort, and — and I’ll be waiting for you the second you get out.”

He pulls back to give Noct space to breathe only to find Noct watching him, head tilted, dark eyes curious. When they lock eyes, Noct gives him a rare, secret smile, his usually calculating gaze gone unusually soft, and Prompto’s breath catches in his chest.

He can feel the warmth of Noct’s belly against his own; Noct’s breath tickling his chin. It would only take the smallest movement to close the space between them — to lean in and find Noct’s lips with his own and kiss him until there was no fear left in him, and no despair. For a fleeting moment of perfect madness, Prompto feels himself start to lean in.

Then he hears a sharp intake of breath and remembers that Noct is mourning his fiance who died like, _yesterday_ , and he jerks away.

Once he’s gathered some semblance of decorum, Prompto glances sideways at Noct. The prince is right where he left him: belly-up on the cot, looking vaguely amused and just a little bit shell-shocked.

“I guess I get why he told you and not me,” Noct snorts, when he notices Prompto’s eyes on him. “Though I wish he’d just written me a note.”

Prompto’s jaw drops.

“A—”

“But it’s too late for that now,” Noct sighs, sitting up. “So tell me a little more about these ten years.”

###

An hour later, they’re still in the same room. Noct is on his back again, with his butt against the wall and his legs sticking up like signposts. Prompto is scrunched up beside him, his knees tucked close against his chest.

“You really got stranded with the wrong party member,” he sighs, defeated. “Iggy or Gladio woulda been way more useful. At least they know their Lucian history.”

“Not as well as I do,” says Noct, in his usual self-assured drawl. “Well — maybe Specs. But honestly, I’m not sure there’s anyone alive who can help with this. I've never even _heard_ of a king going into the crystal.”

“Where are all those tutors when you need them?” Prompto complains. “Feels like we could never get away from them back home, but now that they could actually do something _useful_ , we’re on our own. Should we just wait till we link back up with Iggy?” he suggests. “I doubt we know anyone who’s spent more time in the archives.”

Noct jolts upward so abruptly that he nearly knees Prompto in the face.

“I know someone!” he says breathlessly. “I have a — a friend who basically _lives_ in the archives.”

“I thought I was your friend,” Prompto says pitifully. Noct rolls his eyes.

“You know you can have more than one friend, right?” he asks, rooting around in his pockets. “Luckily for your insecure ass, I’m pretty sure you won’t find him too threatening.”

Prompto’s forehead furrows when Noct pulls out his phone.

“You know we don’t have service—”

“I’m not using my phone,” Noct says impatiently. “I just need the keychain.”

“Huh?”

Noct’s phone charm has always been something of an enigma. It’s a little blue fox cut from paper-thin plastic — the sort of super-cute, sugar-sweet thing that Prompto might want hanging from his backpack, but not really on brand for brooding, black-on-black Noctis.

“Okay,” Noct says, squaring his jaw. “Now we just have to go to sleep.”

“...okay?” Prompto asks, more than says. “So are you gonna explain, or… Okay, I guess not,” he snorts as Noct stretches out and closes his eyes with an expression of utmost determination. “Sure, okay,” he says, shrugging. “Why not? We could use the rest. I’ll take the top bunk, and—”

Before he can move, Noct’s hand snakes out and grabs his wrist.

“Eh?”

“If you wanna come with, you have to be touching the charm,” Noct says, without opening his eyes. “So. You’ll have to, uh. Bunk with me. If you don’t mind,” he adds hastily, a little too fast.

“Not at all,” Prompto says, twice as quick. “I mean — I totally don’t get what the heck you’re talking about, but… I trust you?”

Noct’s eyes stay shut, but Prompto can see him smile.

###

Noct has the charm clasped in his hand, which means that in order to make contact with it, Prompto has to clasp _Noct’s_ hand. Never in his life has Prompto been more aware of the sweat forming in his palm, or of how long it’s been since he last had a shower. (Noct, of course, smells amazing, like smoke and ash and steel and pine, because Noct has protagonist syndrome in a _big_ way).

Ugh, he's being insane. Why can't he stop overthinking this? It’s not like they haven’t shared a bed before. Prompto used to crash in Noct’s bed half the time he slept over, though there was admittedly a lot more room to stretch out. But that was before he found out that Noct thinks he’s _cute_. Everything’s different now.

Prompto fidgets and shifts and squirms, acutely determined not to lean into Noct while also trying his best not to fall out of the much-too-small, definitely-not-made-for-two cot.

“Hold still,” Noct mutters into his ear after a few moments, so close that Prompto can feel his breath and gods help him, surely Noct can feel the way he shudders. Maybe he can pass it off as a shiver? “For astrals’ sake, Prompto, hold still or I will _hold you still_.”

“Guess you’re just gonna have to hold me,” Prompto shoots back, and then goes rigid as Noct’s arm snakes around and clamps down over him, fixing him in place. “Oh,” he says, in a very small voice. “Uh… Okay. Um. G’night, Noct.”

“Nngh,” mutters Noct, who is a man of many talents but none more miraculous than his ability to fall asleep in seconds flat, no matter the circumstance.

Prompto cracks an eyelid to peer at him. Noct has one arm draped over Prompto’s chest and one knee nudging at his hipbone. Is he doing this on purpose? Is he— is this flirting? Prompto knows now that Noct might actually sort of like him, but he also knows that there’s no way in hell Noct would be flirting _now_ , what with the sun burning out and the whole world crumbling around them. Probably the prince just has such an overdeveloped sense of duty that it’s eclipsed all else, and Prompto’s the only reprobate who’s crass enough to think about his crush in a time like this.

“Just… fall asleep,” he mutters to himself. They’ve been fighting for three days straight. Prompto is beyond exhausted. And yet every nerve in his body is clanging with the sheer giddiness of proximity, filling his mind with a cacophony of crashing major chords. Noct hasn’t fallen asleep on him since they were in grade school and now he’s _right there_ , crusted with dried blood and peaceful and unwashed and perfect.

Yeah, it’s not gonna happen. Prompto is too far gone. There’s no way he’s ever gonna fall asleep.

###

When Prompto opens his eyes, he’s sitting cross-legged in the heart of a misty forest. Maybe a foot in front of him sits Noct, with a small blue fox… thing curled in his lap.

“About time,” Noct says languidly. “Carbuncle, meet Prompto. Prompto, Carbuncle.”

The fox lifts its head and sniffs curiously at Prompto. Prompto gives it a dubious squint.

“I’m sorry, _this_ is your scholar?”

“That’s right,” Noct says calmly. “He’s been telling me about the last time a Lucian king was called to go into the crystal.”

“He’s been _telling_ you?”

Noct rolls his eyes and holds up his phone, which is buzzing busily. There’s an endless stream of texts rolling in, almost too fast to read.

Of course I know Prompto! (＾▽＾)

He’s in all your best dreams!! (─‿‿─)

Hi Prompto!!! (´♡‿♡`) (´♡‿♡`) (´♡‿♡`)

“That’s… Those are from Carbuncle?” Prompto asks, darting a dubious glance at the little blue fox still curled in Noct’s lap. The creature flicks its ears at him.

“Uh huh,” Noct says calmly, glancing at his phone screen and abruptly jerking it away. “Anyway, Carbuncle says that the Rogue came to power during some terrible plague, and in order to try to fix it, she went into the crystal to _purify her essence_. But the city was attacked while she was gone, so her advisors had to pull her out.”

“Pull her… You’re saying there’s a way to pull you out??” Prompto demands, immediately losing interest in the whole rapid-texting dream-fox situation. Noct nods.

“That’s what Carbuncle says. Whoever attempts the ritual needs to have been given access to the Armiger, but that’s already handled. And you need something of mine — of the King’s — and a _gift of blood_ , whatever that’s supposed to mean. And you have to say the right words. I can write them down for you when we wake up.”

“Wait, is this why you like to sleep so much??” Prompto asks, jaw dropping. “Because you’ve got this, like, sacred royal — dream forest thing tucked away in your unconscious mind?”

Noct gives him a flat stare.

“Of course not,” he says. “I just like sleeping. Does there have to be a reason?”

###

A thunderous rumble shatters the quiet, and Prompto jolts awake.

“Okay,” Noct says blearily, from basically _inside_ Prompto’s ear, and Prompto jerks away so violently that he would have fallen off the bed, if Noct hadn’t hooked an arm around him and yanked him back.

“Relax, dude,” Noct tells him firmly. “That’s an order.”

“Sorry,” Prompto squeaks. Noct squints at him.

“What’s your deal?” he asks, brow furrowing. “You’re extra jumpy lately.” Suspicion sparks in his eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he demands. “Something my future self said?”

In normal circumstances, Prompto is a pretty good liar, if he does say so himself. But in normal circumstances, he’s not pressed up against the love of his freaking life, noses brushing, breaths mingling, so close he can see the delicate striation in Noct’s vivid blue eyes.

“Of course not!!” he shrills, so frantic that even _Gladio_ could tell it sounded false. Noct gives him a hawkish stare.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls, low and dangerous, and good gods it should be _scary_ or at least intimidating; it certainly shouldn’t make Prompto want to drop to his knees.

“I’m—” Prompto sputters. “I’m — I mean — it’s nothing that _matters_ —”

Noct’s eyes widen, and Prompto curses himself because Noct was bluffing, _obviously_. He hadn’t actually known that Prompto was holding out on him until Prompto, dumbshit that he is, went and confirmed it.

“You’re seriously hiding something?” Noct asks, incredulous. “What… I mean, _why_?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Prompto is babbling. “It just didn’t seem like the right time, and I didn’t want to make things weird just because I’m— and it’s not like it matters _anyway_ —”

Noct stares.

“What did he tell you?” he asks roughly. “Tell me.”

Prompto can’t say no to Noct. Talking about his feelings while the world withers around him still feels intolerably, unforgivably selfish, but surely it’s not his fault if Noct _makes_ him tell, right? Prompto gulps audibly.

“Um,” he squeaks. “Just that you, um. That you… think I’m cute.”

Noct flinches back like he’s been burned.

“Wh— Don’t fuck with me,” he hisses, jerking his face away just a beat too late to hide the pink flush that blooms from the tip of his nose to the nape of his neck.

Prompto tries to explain that he isn’t, but there’s already another question bubbling from his stomach, bursting at the back of his throat with so much forceful urgency that he has to voice it or he’ll die.

“Can I kiss you?” he bursts out, one incoherent jangle of sound, and then curses himself for being such a hapless fool. He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, though honestly he’s not really surprised. Noct has been a breath away for _hours_ , so of course it’s all Prompto can think about.

When he musters the courage to look up, Noct is staring at him, not contemptuous but incredulous, like he can’t believe what he’s heard. He rubs the back of his neck and looks at his lap.

“Y— yeah,” he mutters. Prompto’s head tilts.

“What?”

“ _I said, yes_ ,” Noct hisses, looking incensed in a way that might have been worrying, if Prompto didn’t know that it meant that Noct is absolutely _mortified_. “I — I mean, you can, um. You can—”

Noct’s eyes dart up to meet Prompto’s and then flick down, toward Prompto’s mouth, and Prompto’s blood froths in his veins. He can feel his heart skip and trip and stutter but he doesn’t have time to focus on his breathing because he’s already leaning in.

And then his mouth is on Noct’s, and for a second he’s terrified that he’s misinterpreted things, that Noct will push him away, but instead Noct _moans into his mouth_ and pulls him closer, trailing one hand down the line of Prompto’s jaw and cupping the nape of his neck with the other. Noct’s lips are soft and his mouth is hot and wet and he tastes so sweet that Prompto can’t suppress a little whimper of relief, of elation, of sheer sensation. Noct’s hands turn fierce and wild at the sound; his nails rake down Prompto’s back like he’s trying to tear him apart.

“Noct,” Prompto breathes into his mouth, giddy and bright, and suddenly he can’t stop smiling, even though it’s kind of getting in the way of the kissing. Noct draws back a millimeter and Prompto instinctively chases after him, falling forward a little. When he opens his eyes he can see Noct looking at him with that same painful, unbearable fondness he saw three days ago, when Noct’s older self first set fire to his world.

“You’re so dumb,” Noct says lovingly. “You’re so fucking stupid, Prom.”

“Hey!!” Prompto sputters. “What the heck!!”

“I’ve been flirting with you for like, _six years_ ,” Noct goes on, trailing two fingers down Prompto’s cheek and then brushing his lip with the pad of his thumb. “And now you’re gonna tell me I _traveled through time_ to confess to you and you still didn’t make a move?”

“Well, you were pretty busy,” Prompto says faintly, leaning into the touch like a lovesick cat. Noct laughs right in his face.

“Gods, you’re so dumb. I can’t believe I had to _time travel_ to get you to do something.”

“Well — hey, what about you?” Prompto demands, indignant. “You coulda said something! I’m — it’s not like I’m _subtle_!!”

“You’re certainly not,” Noct sniffs.

“Hey!!!” Prompto protests, except the effect is kinda ruined by the fact that he can’t stop smiling. “You’re so mean!!”

“You like it,” Noct says huskily, and Prompto can’t suppress a full-on, embarrassingly obvious shudder.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, I — really like it.”

Noct chuckles, low and throaty. Prompto looks on with undisguised devotion.

“So dumb,” Noct mutters again, though this time, Prompto’s pretty sure that he isn’t talking about him. “Gods. You’re really giving me a lot to take in at once,” he says reproachfully, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Prompto’s ear. Prompto’s eyes go wide.

“I — I _said_ it wasn’t the right time!!”

“Yeah, cause the right time was _six years ago_ ,” Noct growls. Prompto’s got a retort ready for him, but then Noct leans in and licks into his mouth, and all the world’s words fly out of Prompto’s head. His eyes fall shut and for once in his life, his mind goes blissfully quiet.

###

Two hours later, they peel themselves off the cot and set out for the elevator. Except that of course, _obviously_ , it’s locked. And to Prompto’s horror, the lock is digital, not mechanical. Sticking out from the call button is an optical scanner, like the kind you might see at a checkout counter. Except Prompto’s pretty sure that the barcodes it reads don’t come printed on a sticker.

Fuck.

( _He already found out once_ , he tells himself hopelessly. _That other Noct found out on his own and he wasn’t mad, and he didn’t hate you._ )

But that was different. The other Noct put the pieces together while Prompto was missing, suspected dead or at least horribly tortured. Noct is a man of action; he prioritizes the most pressing need. Of course he wouldn’t waste time questioning Prompto’s humanity when Prompto’s currently getting taken apart by an evil wizard.

But how will he feel here and now, with Prompto safe beside him, wreathed in a fortress of lies? What will he think when he learns that Prompto’s been lying to him for the better part of a decade? What will he say when he finds out that the boy he just kissed breathless is a— is just a— that he isn’t really even a—

“Maybe we can find a keycard?” Noct is saying, somewhere far off in the distance. “I know we broke most of the tinmen, but there’s gotta be one or two left somewhere. I line ‘em up, you knock ‘em down, right?” he asks, roguish, and Prompto bursts into tears.

Noct’s grin dissolves into a look of horror.

“I — what’s happening?” he asks, alarmed. Noct has never been good with crying.

“Th—” Prompto chokes out. “There’s something else.”

And so the truth comes out, _again_ , in fits and starts and choked, painful gasps. Prompto tries to watch Noct’s face as he talks but he _can’t_ , so he wrings his hands and mutters to his feet about the tattoo he’s always hidden, and the truth that it reveals.

When he finally musters the strength to glance up, Noct's eyes burn with suppressed violence. Prompto’s breath hitches and he trips backward a pace, but the hands that alight on his shoulders are gentle, almost painfully so, like he’s cradling a sparrow’s egg.

“That sucks,” Noct says quietly. "I'm really sorry, Prom, you — don't deserve any of that, obviously. I wish you'd told me sooner," he adds, a little plaintive, and Prompto's heart seizes up before Noct adds, "But I guess I get why you wouldn't. I think my dad would have been cool about it, but Clarus probably would have overthought everything, and if he tried to stop us hanging out, that would’ve been a huge drag.”

Prompto stares. He’s not sure what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t that.

“Th— that’s it?” he asks, sniffling. Noct gives him a worried smile and then, looking only faintly embarrassed, presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Yeah, stupid, that's it. What, you thought I was gonna get mad? About the decade of lies, or what?”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Prompto wails. “Or I mean, that too!! But dude, it’s — it’s not just that I’m a — _Niff_ ,” he forces out, spitting the word like a curse. “Aranea’s Empire and she’s, you know, she;s a pretty cool guy. But I’m a — I’m not just someone who’s from here,” he says, in a small voice. “I’m something they _made_.”

“Yeah, made out of stem cells or whatever,” Noct says dismissively. “That’s how we all started. What, you think test tube babies don’t count as people?”

“Noct!! I’m being serious!!”

“So am I,” Noct tells him. “Look at me. Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He really doesn’t. His dark eyes have never looked so serious.

“Look,” Noct says gently, taking Prompto’s hands in his own. “It’s a lot to take in. Not where you’re from,” he adds hastily, “but that MTs are — that this whole time we’ve been killing _people_. But I don't care where you're from, Prom. I mean, have you ever once treated me like a prince?"

Prompto chokes on a laugh.

“Guess not,” he admits.

“You’re one of ours,” Noct says fiercely. He hesitates, and pink blooms in his cheeks as he adds, “One of — mine.”

Red-eyed and tearstreaked as he is, Prompto still manages to give him a glowing grin.

“You got that right,” he says. “To the very end. As long as you — want me, I'm yours."

Noct rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the pleased little smile tugging at his mouth.

“Glad that’s settled,” he says drily. “So... you said something about a barcode?”

###

It’s not hard to get to the top. After all, Prompto’s the key to every door in this joint. One long, smooth elevator ride, a desperate hustle across a daemon-infested hangar, and another elevator, and they’re en route to the penthouse.

Once they’re sure that there are no more daemons clawing at the doors or scraping at the ceiling, Noct wraps both arms around Prompto’s waist and hoists him off the ground, making him whoop with surprise before shoving him against the wall and kissing him senseless.

“Never figured you for the classics,” Prompto teases, when Noct draws back for air. Noct leans forward and bites him, right on the face.

“Making up for lost time,” he says huskily.

Prompto holds Noct like he’s trying to climb inside him, to slip under his skin and curl up against his racing heart.

Noct kisses Prompto like he’s trying to devour him. His mouth is hungry, unrelenting; his hands fierce and wild. It’s intoxicating. Prompto could look at him forever.

But he can’t. To bring back the sun, Noct has to leave him behind. Prompto finally gets to close the space between them — he finally gets _Noct_ , and he doesn’t even get to keep him. It’s like he got a free wish from the world’s most vindictive genie: everything he’s ever wanted, for just long enough to learn that he can’t live without it.

The depth of loss knocks the breath out of him. He pulls away, chokes and almost retches. His eyes are pressed shut but somehow he can still feel Noct’s eyes on him, and a moment later his feet land gently on the ground.

“I’ll come back,” Noct says quietly.

“I know.”

“And if you need me, you can pull me out.”

“..Right.” Except they both know that’s not true. To bring back the sun, Noct has to spend ten years bathing in the light of the crystal. Every day he spends out here is one more day of darkness and daemons and death.

Prompto needs him. Prompto _always_ needs him. But so does the rest of the world.

“It’s not fair,” he chokes out. Noct presses his forehead against Prompto’s, takes a long, shuddering breath.

“Yeah,” he agrees. And then there’s nothing more to say.

###

When the elevator doors slide open, the crystal is waiting.

Prompto's first delirious thought is that it doesn't look like a crystal, exactly. It's more like a geode, except that when you crack open this geode, you find yourself staring into the depths of the infinite cosmos.

The heart of the crystal pulses, casting a radiant glow that burns clearer than glass and brighter than dawn. Violet light blooms from its center and swirls outward in impossibly complicated patterns, the motion disturbingly organic. It glitters. It thrums. It makes Prompto's teeth hurt, makes his bones shudder and ache. For a moment he's afraid that it's because the crystal knows that he's a Niff, until he looks over to see Noct wincing.

“ _Ow_ ,” the prince says, gritting his teeth. “Weird.”

“Haven’t you — I’d have thought you’d have seen it before?” Prompto asks, more than says. Noct shakes his head.

“Dad didn’t want me getting too close,” he says grimly. “I think he was worried it’d start draining my life instead of his.”

Prompto doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead he flicks a hand out and closes his fingers around Noct’s wrist, giving it a tentative squeeze.

He knows that he should say, _you can do this_ , but what comes out is, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, no,” Noct says drily. “I really think I do.”

“But—”

Prompto hesitates. He thinks about the people on the train, wailing and clutching each other as the daemons descended. He thinks about the darkened sky over Gralea, all smooth, frictionless black, so thick that even starlight can’t slip through. He grimaces.

“I know what you mean, definitely,” he admits. “I just mean—”

 _I wish you could be selfish. I want you to ask for more time. I wish you felt like you could want something._ Or, _we can still run away! We can build a shack in the woods and live in the darkness together, so far off the grid that even Ardyn will never find us._ Or, _I love you, please, you’re my whole life, I can’t lose you, in the whole world there’s nothing else I want_.

He settles for, “I wish it was someone else.”

He has to watch what he says. Future-Noct warned him that Ardyn was waiting at the top of the tower. Prompto’s already pinged on Ardyn’s radar as an object of suspicion, on the train just — gods, was that _today_?

Right now, their only real advantage is that Ardyn doesn’t know that they’ve seen the future. So they can't let slip that they already know what the crystal will do to Noct.

Noct shoots Prompto a furtive look of warning and then sticks out his chin and smirks.

“I’ll be fine,” he says confidently. “It was decades before the crystal started to really tap my dad’s life force. I’ll make the connection, bring back the light, save the world, and we can all swing through Tenebrae for dessert. Right?”

“Right,” Prompto says, with a watery smile.

“You wanna wait here?”

“No way, dude,” Prompto says fiercely. “I’m with you. You just focus on saving the world, yeah? I’ll watch your back.”

“That’s very comforting,” Noct tells him, patronizing but fond.

“It _should_ be!”

They’ve talked about how to play this. Noct was worried that he wouldn’t be able to convincingly feign shock and horror when the crystal started pulling him in, so they decided to go with “terrified optimism” — in other words, to loudly assume that it is all just part of the normal Lucian light-crystal world-cleansing process.

Still, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Noct literally disappearing, sunk to the arm in a chunk of glittering stone, with nothing below his elbow but a flare of blinding light.

“Th— this is normal?” Prompto asks shrilly, not even really acting. Noct darts a look at him and for once in his life his face isn’t guarded. Splashed across it is pure panic, voiceless dread and guilt and terror.

“I—” he says. “I don’t — I mean, my dad never told me what it— _ah_ ,” he gasps, panicked, as the pulsing light swallows his shoulder and begins to creep up his chest.

“Why, fancy seeing you here!” a familiar voice drawls, mock-enthused, and Prompto is startled by the immediacy of his own bone-cracking, blood-boiling hate as Ardyn materializes behind them. “Your Majesty! You seem to be taking this development rather well,” the chancellor says admiringly, in a voice so false it makes Prompto’s eyes water. “I should have thought that you’d wish to remain in this realm, but I see now I was mistaken.”

“What do you mean?” Noct demands, but with only half his mouth. His face is already half swallowed by the light. Ardyn doesn’t answer, instead giving Prompto a mocking little bow.

“And your little dog, too! Irresponsible to leave him unattended, don’t you think?” he asks silkily. “It would be a shame if something were to happen to him, in your absence.”

 _Now_ Noct struggles. He thrashes like a fish in a net, all tightly coiled muscle and will to survive, and Prompto feels himself come undone. He scrabbles for Noct’s hand and pulls, pulls as hard as he can but it’s _nothing_ , it’s like pulling on the crag of a mountain. Noct is _right there_ , in his literal grasp, warm against his hand, and _still_ he’s out of reach. With every passing second, he’s disappearing.

Noct’s voice cuts out abruptly and now all that’s left is his arm, his fingers still tangled together with Prompto’s. Prompto pulls and sobs and _pulls_. As the light creeps over Noct’s hand he can feel it _burn_ against his palm, can smell the stink of cooking meat and burning leather. And then his hand is empty, and Noct’s hand is gone, and Noct is gone. Prompto is alone with the crystal, and with Ardyn.

“Awww,” the chancellor drawls, making a mockery of sympathy. “What a shame. If only there had been someone here who was strong enough to save him! Ah, well. Too late now.”

Prompto doesn’t stop to think. He aims his stolen pistol and he fires.

The bullet catches Ardyn square between the eyes. Prompto can hear the crack- _crunch_ of bone, like stomping on a half-frozen puddle. Then indigo flame licks from the wound, and his skin closes over.

“Bad dog,” the chancellor chides. “What would your master say? No way to know now, I suppose.”

“Monster,” Prompto snarls at him, uncharacteristically lost for words. Ardyn gives him a pitying smile.

“Some might say so,” he purrs, syrupy-smooth. “But would you like to hear the punchline? Between the two of us, I’m still the more human.”

“Shut _up_!” Prompto shouts, and then. He can hear voices rising from the doorway, and pounding feet. Iggy and Gladio. He feels a swell of relief and then an equally powerful jolt of shame and dread. They’re here for nothing. Their king is gone.

“Oh, how nice,” Ardyn says. “I do so love a reunion. Good luck explaining to your friends how you lost their king,” he says encouragingly. “I’m sure that they’ll be very understanding.”

He sticks around long enough to wave a languid hello when Gladio comes pounding through the door like a runaway train. Then he waggles his fingers at Prompto and dissolves in a swirl of indigo flame.

“Where’s Noct?” Gladio demands.

“He’s not here?” Ignis asks sharply, striding into the doorway. “Where is he?”

Prompto thinks about crying. He feels like dying. He’d rather throw himself over the edge of the parapet than tell Iggy and Gladio that their king is just _gone_ , but he promised Noct that he’d be there to greet him in ten years, so he’s gonna have to live that long at least.

He looks around for Ardyn. He doesn’t see anything, but just to be safe, he sidles closer to the others before he talks.

“Okay, it’s — bad, but — not as bad as it could be,” he says, choking up a little. “The, um.. The important part is that he’s coming back. He’s not gone forever.”

“Gone,” Ignis repeats flatly, carefully expressionless in a way that reminds Prompto painfully of Noct.

“Noct is — gods, it was so fucked up,” he says, choking up a little. “Noct is — _inside_ the crystal?? He touched the crystal and it — I don’t know, it pulled him inside, it didn’t seem like it hurt but he didn’t — couldn’t pull loose, and then he was just—”

He shudders, slaps both his cheeks, pulls himself together.

“What I’m trying to say is, Noct had another vision,” he says, a little guilty about the lie but not confident in his ability to convince them of the actual truth. “On our way up the tower. The crystal spoke to him. He _can_ restore the light and purge the daemons and save the world. But… Not for another ten years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like to think that Ardyn spent weeks setting up this whole nightmarish rube goldberg machine of cascading traps-on-traps-on-traps based on the assumption that he'd have prompto as a hostage, and then when prompto *doesn't* get thrown off the train his entire intricate latticework of torment just kind of falls apart. and i love that for him.
> 
> pls tell me ur favorite part if u wanna make my day (and also motivate me to get thru this next chapter which is currently kicking my ass)


	6. ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun goes out. Noct is gone. Lucis languishes in darkness. Prompto struggles to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda insanely long update for yall this week! i probably should have split it into three chapters, but i hate leaving folks on an excessively bleak note so i just crammed it into one big stack

#### one.

Prompto promised to be there when Noct woke up, and he intends to. He’s certainly not about to leave his best friend trapped in amber in the middle of some moldering ruin. So while Iggy and Gladio are standing around, shell-shocked, Prompto unlocks an airship -- (his barcode has never been so _useful_ ) -- and gets the big guy to help him load the crystal on board.

It takes a few days to decide where to set up shop. Lestallum’s an obvious choice. Now that the sky’s gone dark for good, it’s one of the last bright spots in the world. But there’s too many people there, too many strangers he can’t trust. He needs to keep Noct safe, and the simplest way to do that is to keep him out of sight.

He ends up moving in above a haven in northern Leide, near enough to Hammerhead that he can lend a hand when Cindy needs one, but far enough from the main road to know that no one will ever stumble into his homestead by chance. He’d wanted to make their home near a fishing spot — Noct would like living by a river, he thinks — but wooded areas are too dangerous; there’s too many places for daemons to hide. At least in the desert, you can see what’s coming before it eats you.

It’s no big loss. All the rivers have gone putrid, anyway. After a few weeks with no sun, vegetation dries up fast, which throws a wrench in the tried-and-true food cycle. The bottom-feeders die first, starved of the algae they used to feed on. Then go the little fish that eat them, and the bigger fish that eat them, until all that's left is the really twisted ones, bony and phosphorescent and far from edible, and the astrals only know what _they’re_ eating.

They camped here once before. It’s the first place they made camp, the same day they left the Crown City. Prompto took pictures of everything: Gladio setting up the tent, and Iggy dicing a whole cornucopia of fresh vegetables, and Noct training with Gladio, and Noct munching on a kebab, and Noct slouching by the fire, and Noct languidly waving him over to play King’s Knight. Of course Prompto trotted over straight away, and when he flopped down on the camping chair at the wrong angle and went crashing over backwards, Noct laughed so hard he cried.

No one is laughing now.

Iggy and Gladio aren’t talking to him. He’s not surprised. They left Noct in his care and when they caught up, their king was gone, leaving nothing but a darkened crystal, a bullshit line about a vision, and a ten-year leave of absence, along with the empty husk formerly known as Prompto.

It would be easier if he could just pull Noct out of the crystal and let _him_ explain, but he can’t. Of course, there’s the ritual, an old Lucian secret remembered only by one weird little dream-fox. So technically, Iggy and Gladio _could_ talk to Noct. Except that on their way to the top of the Keep, Noct made Prompto promise not to tell them.

(“Carbuncle says the more you pull me out, the longer it takes,” he murmured into Prompto’s ear, arms wrapped tight around his waist. “I don’t know how _much_ longer, but… Everyone is waiting for me,” he sighed, his grip tightening a little. “Ten years is already way too long. I can’t make them wait any longer. So you can’t tell the others. Iggy’s gonna _freak_ ,” he said unhappily. “He’d pull me out just to find out if I needed a snack, or something.”

“Do you want me to like… burn the note?” Prompto asked miserably, slipping his hand into his pocket to nudge at the slip of paper where Noct wrote down instructions on how to pull him out. “So I can’t bring you out either?”

Noct shook his head.

“I know it’s selfish,” he said quietly. “But it feels — less bad, knowing I can still be there if you really need me.”

“Yeah, like if I need help opening a pickle jar.”

“Yeah, like that,” the prince snorted, shoving Prompto away. “Dumbass.”

Prompto staggered and then recovered neatly, pivoting on one foot and whirling back to fling himself at Noct.

“You gotta understand,” he said, winsome, nudging Noct’s nose with his own. “I really, really like pickles.”)

Prompto presses his eyes shut and slams his palms over his ears, hard enough to hurt.

“ _Stop_ ,” he tells himself harshly. “Stop it. Enough.”

It’s been two weeks, and Prompto already needs Noct. Every day since Noct went into the crystal, Prompto’s needed him more than the day before. Sometimes he needs him so bad he feels like he can’t breathe. But what is he supposed to do? He can’t put his feelings over the fate of the world. So he seals the note away, out of sight and out of reach, and he hunkers down to wait.

###

Prompto buys a calendar. Then he buys nine more, even though they’re all for the same year because no one is printing calendars anymore. He crosses the days off diligently for a week before realizing that this way lies madness and throwing them all away.

The sun doesn’t rise.

He gets to work setting up his homestead. Havens still keep the daemons at bay, somehow, even though the Oracle’s been dead for a month. But that doesn’t make it easy. There’s no water out here, and no power; no way to grow food or feed livestock. All he’s got is a trio of energy deposits, an Imperial-grade airship, and a celestial crystal gifted to Eos by the gods.

His first move is to throw together a series of wind turbines, since wind is the only source of energy that’s actually gotten _more_ abundant since the sky went dark. The airship has enough fuel in the tank to keep the lights on for now, but that will last him weeks, not years.

Next, he turns his focus on the problem of potable water. It rarely rains out here, and now that the rivers run slow and torrid with dead fish and rot, the rains that _do_ come are slick to the touch, and burn where they hit your skin. Prompto strips the airship’s inner hull for parts and throws together a few oversized oildrums, and then spends a few days rigging up a rudimentary evaporative filtration system. It’s inefficient, obviously, but it’s not like he’s trying to hydrate an army. He only needs enough water for one.

By the end of the month, Prompto’s airship has sprouted a few new walls. Noct stays in the bedroom, a comforting monolith looming over the foot of Prompto’s sleeping pad. The kitchen’s not pretty, but it’s got a table -- well, okay, a slab of uneven metal on three sticks -- and a gas stove adapted from engine parts. He’s even figured out how to tap electricity from the lightning deposit, offloading the strain on his turbines so he doesn’t have to worry about the lights going out on a rare windless day.

He doesn’t see Iggy. He doesn’t see Gladio, either.

It’s better this way. He’s heard from Cindy that they’re out there in the world, helping people, _saving_ people, organizing relief efforts and hunting monsters and feeding refugees. They wouldn’t understand why he’s shut himself away. Half the time he thinks that they didn’t even believe him, when he told them that Noct would come back. The other half the time, he wonders if they believe that Noct is really in the crystal at all.

He doesn’t know what to tell them. He doesn’t know how to convince them. It’s easier to leave it alone. It’s better this way.

The hole in his chest grows larger every day. His lungs feel ragged, like every breath he draws grinds salt in the wound. Every day of the past month has been the longest of his life.

Prompto always used to be alone, before Noct. He used to be _good_ at it. He could entertain himself for hours with a few paperclips and a length of twine. He can’t do that anymore. It was easy, back when he didn’t know there was any other choice. Not that there’s much choice now. No matter how much Prompto needs him, Noct is out of his reach.

Prompto cries a lot. There’s no one around to hear him, no one to gripe about being woken up in the middle of the night because _some_ one is on their period again, so what’s the harm? Sometimes, after a really long, wrenching cry — the kind that squirms out from the pit of your stomach and scrapes up your windpipe and shatters your sternum to jagged-edged shards — he even feels a little better afterwards. It’s like he expends all the grief in his body and for a short, blissful hour, he feels nothing but numb, with grey, tingling static where the ragged hole should be. Then he remembers something Noct told him, or something Noct did, or the way it felt to press himself so close against Noct that he could feel his heartbeat thrum against his own chest, and the pain comes roaring back.

###

For the first year, Prompto spends a lot of time talking to the crystal.

It’s like with coma patients, he figures — how sometimes they can still sometimes hear stuff even though they can’t move, or respond, or reach out and touch you. Noct is all alone in the crystal, floating weightless through an endless sea of holy light. Maybe if Noct can hear his voice sometimes, filtering in from the world above, he won’t feel so lonely.

“Acid rain today,” he might say. “You’ll love it. It’s like regular rain, except it hurts!”

Or, “Saw a Tonberry out back. Dude, those guys are like, disturbingly cute. I almost invited him in before I remembered that he would totally eat my bones if he got the chance.”

Or, “Cold out, huh? You need a sweater?” (He actually finds himself draping a blanket over the crystal before he stops himself because, again, that way lies madness).

Mostly, he talks about what they’re going to do when Noct gets out.

“What if we _don’t_ go save the world right away?” he suggests hopefully. “You’ve earned a day off, surely. I can show you my turbines and filters and my stupid busted garden, and we can lie in bed all day and not tell anyone that you’re back, not even Iggy. You’d probably call that selfish,” he says peevishly, his mood souring. “Well, you know what I think is selfish? Setting my life on fire and then ghosting for ten years.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he admits, crawling back an hour later. “I’m just all fucked up. I just — _miss_ you, dude. I can’t—”

Then breathing gets too hard, so he has to take some time to cry before he can finish that sentence.

“After we save the world, let’s go joyriding on your dad’s ship,” he suggests a few weeks later. “Remember the royal vessel? You can catch all the fish you want and I won’t even whine about how long it takes. Well — actually, the ecosystem is kinda fucked right now, so it might be a while before there are any fish to catch. But the ocean’s gotta look better than it does out here.”

“Oh, shit, I have an _airship_ now!” he realizes one morning. “I mean — I stripped most of the parts,” he admits sheepishly, “but I can probably put them back. I can take you _anywhere_ , dude. We can go get those pastries you like in Tenebrae and then swing by Lestallum for kebabs.”

(“It’s not fair,” he snarls at Noct, on worse days. “Why would you — why would you give me a way to pull you out if I’m never allowed to do it? At least if you were just stuck in there, I wouldn’t have to — _choose_ not to see you. Can’t you see how unfair that is??”)

Noct never answers. The crystal stands there, dark, inert, like there’s no one inside at all.

###

Prompto bolts awake. There’s a sound creeping in from the surrounding dark, softer and higher than the usual screeches and squelches and snarls.

Silently, he snakes a hand out and summons his gun. He flips off the safety and rests his finger on the trigger before slipping out of bed and padding toward the front door.

“Is someone there?” he demands. There’s no point trying to hide. The whole haven is lit up like a christmas tree to keep the daemons from mauling his filtration system. Whoever (or _what_ ever)’s out there, it has the element of surprise.

There’s no answer.

“ _Hey_ ,” he’s starting to shout again, louder than before, and then he hears it again: a small, high, barely-audible but nonetheless unmistakeable meow.

Prompto narrows his eyes. He darts back into the airship and returns with a flashlight, modified for improved range, and sweeps its beam across the dark.

He can’t see anything, but he knows what he heard. That doesn’t mean he trusts it. It could easily be a daemon trick, or human raiders, here to lure him into the dark and steal his stuff and do gods-know-what to Noct.

On his next sweep, the light flashes off of two glowing green eyes.

That, in itself, wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. There are always plenty of eyes leering from the dark around his haven. But these are a good deal smaller and rounder than the ones he’s used to.

“Shit,” he mutters. What’s he supposed to do? Other than quick visits to Hammerhead to restock supplies, he tries not to venture out of the haven. It would be insane to risk his life for what may not even actually be a cat. How could a cat survive all those daemons? Of course it’s a trick.

But if it’s not a trick… If it’s just a cat, lost, scared, struggling through an endless dark that is literally _squirming_ with daemons — well. It’s all alone out there.

Besides, Noct loves cats.

“Ughh,” Prompto sighs, slapping his forehead with his palm. “This is so _dumb_.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s armed and armored. He does one more sweep of the area — there’s a squirming phosphorescence to his right that’s probably a colony of Flan, and the creaking grind of a pair of Iron Giants doing their usual rounds to the north. But he doesn’t see anything too close. It’s as good a chance as he’s ever gonna get.

Bracing himself for the worst, Prompto creeps into the dark.

“Heeere, kitty,” he whispers, holding out a half-open tin of canned tuna — a precious luxury, payment from Cindy in exchange for patching the garage roof after some buzzing, rattling winged monstrosity crashed through it. “Heere, kitty. You hungry, buddy? I got something real nice.”

An ominous grind of steel catches his ear. Prompto’s weapon is drawn before he has time to feel afraid. The tuna clatters to the ground and he swears; he _really_ can’t afford to waste that protein but he also can’t afford to die here, nine years and six months before Noct comes back, so he leaves it. The Iron Giants are rumbling nearer. Iron Giants are slow, but there are usually faster foes following in their footsteps.

Something rustles close behind him, _too close_. Prompto whirls, takes aim just in time to see a shuddering mound of purple jello lurching toward him.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, stumbling back. Instinct tells him to hold his fire. The noise will only draw more of them, and he doubts he could take out a whole fucking _herd_ , not even in his prime, when he was still eating a meal every day instead of every third.

When he tracks his flashlight downward, he’s startled to find a puff of soot-black fur with three stick legs and a bottlebrush tail, noshing frantically on the spilled tuna.

“Shit,” he mutters, this time with resolve. “Okay. You’re not gonna like this,” he warns the cat. And then with fighting instincts honed to a razor’s edge by months of endless combat, he surges for it and seizes it by the scruff.

By the time he sprints, panting, into the safety of his haven, his forearm is a weeping crosshatch of shredded meat.

“ _Bastard_ ,” he snarls at the hissing, spitting, furious cat, flinging it away the instant he’s inside. “I’m trying to _help_ you, okay?”

Clearly uninterested in his help, the cat flattens its ears, bares its teeth and hisses before vanishing into his bedroom.

Prompto doesn’t see it again for three days. He spends the days like he usually would: running maintenance on the filtration system, and going over every inch of wiring to check for any stripped rubber that might send him and Noct up in smoke, and checking his traps to see if any edible beasts have stumbled through. But he carefully opts not to finish his rations. He leaves the last fifth-or-so of each meal on the table and then pointedly turns his back to it. By the end of the night, the bowl is licked clean.

On the morning of the fourth day, he opens his eyes to find green eyes staring at him from the ceiling.

Somehow it’s made its way up the delicate scaffolding of half-deconstructed shelves and taken shelter in a little pocket of exposed steel, where it can watch Prompto sleep without having to worry about him doing anything terrifying, like blinking or breathing.

“Hey,” he greets it. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

It stares, bristling with unchecked hostility. After a moment, Prompto is startled to realize that he’s smiling. It’s just like Noct: hissing and spitting and lashing out with pointless, impotent violence, all because it can’t bear to admit that it’s afraid.

Prompto can’t remember the last time he smiled.

He sits up and grins.

“If you come out, I’ll give you half my dinner instead of a fifth,” he offers, without expectation. “No pressure, though.” Noct never liked to feel cornered either.

The cat glares for a beat longer before it flicks its tail and vanishes into the vents. Prompto shrugs and lets it go. Everyone needs space sometimes.

###

He _almost_ names it Noctis, until he considers how that will look if anyone ever stops by. He names it Prince instead, which is much subtler and will definitely reassure everyone of his sanity.

It takes two months for Prince to permit Prompto to stand in the same room, and _only_ if Prompto is looking away. It takes six before he’ll let Prompto eat dinner across the table from him.

On the morning of the eighth month, he wakes up to find Prince curled in a plush, pliable knot at the foot of his bed, and Prompto feels warmer than he has in months.

###

The trouble with cats is that they eat.

And not like Prompto eats, every few days and without any real pleasure. Prince wants to eat _every day_. If he doesn’t, he yowls all through the night, making sure that Prompto can never get a moment’s peace.

“You’re insatiable!!” Prompto bursts out, after a few days of this treatment. “What’s next? Drinking water? Demanding oxygen _every day_ , and not only on Tuesdays?”

Prince meows snootily and turns his nose up at him.

That’s Prompto’s favorite thing about the cat. Prince is _chatty_. He didn’t make a sound for the first four months, but once he started yelling, he never stopped. So Prompto shrugs it off and decides to get better at keeping him fed.

He iterates on a few generations of rattraps. There aren’t many rats out here in the desert, so he mostly catches insects, the only family of the animal kingdom that seems to be thriving in the endless dark. Fortunately, Prince eats them with as much gusto as if Prompto were dishing up a tray of the finest salmon tartare. (“You better not lick me with that mouth,” Prompto tells him, revolted, the first time he watches Prince crunch down on a still-twitching scorpion.)

But one night (or possibly day, there’s no way to tell), Prompto’s doing maintenance on his turbines when he hears a trap snap shut on something that _squeaks_.

He darts a look at Prince, who’s stretched out on the roof beside him.

“You hear that, dude?”

“ _Nyeeorw_ ,” Prince yowls back.

“Yeah, I friggin bet.”

Prompto considers his options. His last experiment involved laying his traps just outside of the glow of his spotlights. His bet seems to have paid off, so maybe the light really was scaring away potential meals. But now he’s got another choice to make.

If he waits until the daemons smell fresh meat, they’ll swarm by the dozens, and there’ll be nothing left for him _or_ Prince. But if the daemons move faster than he does, there’ll be nothing left of Prompto, either.

Prince yowls hungrily, and Prompto makes up his mind.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he sighs, already halfway through the hatch. “Wish me luck, buddy.”

Prince doesn’t deign to answer.

###

Sure enough, he hooked a big one this time. Lying limp in his trap is a sad heap of fur as big as his hand — a gopher, maybe, or some other burrower. It’s kinda encouraging to think that there are still warm creatures scurrying around under his feet, tending their communities and noshing on worms and surviving in spite of it all. (It’s also more than a little depressing, seeing the little guy all squished and lifeless, but there’s nothing he can do about that now. Besides, his roommate’s gotta eat.)

Dropping to a crouch, Prompto stalks into the dark.

He can hear the telltale squish- _squelch_ of a Flan or a Creme Brulee or some other revolting heap of slime with an incongruously cute name, but it’s still far off, and slimes don’t move half as fast as he does. He keeps the beam of his light on the source of the sound as he prowls toward the trap, and heaves a sigh of relief when he manages to snag it before the daemons burst through the undergrowth. He’s in the home stretch.

Prompto whirls around and bolts for home. He springs forward just in time to catch the bladed hook of a ropey tail right in the gut.

“ _Gnh_ —” he grunts, and pain lights up his world.

He can feel the ragged tearing ache of muscle fibres snapped and hanging loose; can feel a wash of slick heat as blood slops from the wound. Adrenaline overclocks every nerve in his body, a defibrillator applied directly to the brain. He hasn’t taken a direct hit from a daemon in almost a year, not since he was still fighting back to back with Noct. He’d have gladly gone nine more. The pain is _extraordinary_. The worst part is it’s not even anything impressive, it’s an _imp_ , just a little green goblin with a shit-eating grin and a poisoned blade for a tail, bouncing and chortling and leering up at him.

He’s not sure how to operate his hands but somehow he still manages to fire, spattering the dry dirt with impact craters and totally missing his target, which screeches and scampers away. The other daemons will have heard the sound, they’ll come running and if he loses much more blood he won’t be able to stop them so he can’t waste time. Noct is waiting or — Prince is waiting, _someone_ ’s waiting, so he can’t just — die here, not from something so stupid.

Prompto staggers forward and reels against the brightness as he lumbers into the light, so blazing bright it slots twin blades behind his eyes and _twists_. He can barely see but he knows the way by heart; he drags himself over the stone and up the step and lurches over the threshold.

Did he close the door behind him? If he leaves the door open, Prince will — he could get out and get lost, or hurt, or eaten, or disappear and leave him all alone for years and years and years. So Prompto has to close the door but he can’t figure out where it is, if it’s behind him or in front of him or what.

 _Imps afflict poison_ , he remembers vaguely. _And confusion, sometimes. You’re poisoned, or you’re confused_.

“Well, I’m definitely confused,” he manages to wheeze, and vomits.

He becomes vaguely aware of Prince twining around his ankles, shoving against his shins hard enough to knock him off his feet. But when Prompto tumbles to the ground, the cat doesn’t seem pleased by that either. He yowls in Prompto’s face, clearly distressed. He wants something, or he — wants Prompto to want something?

An antidote. But Iggy holds onto the curatives, Prompto doesn’t know where to find them. Would Noct know? But Noct isn’t here, he remembers, and a ragged sob slips from his lips.

His hands are cold, like ice, so slick he can barely get a grip on the floor. He can feel his awareness drifting, the room darkening, even though the room was already dark, is always dark, it’s always dark now. He can see Prince’s little chin moving like he’s yowling but he can’t barely hear it over the rushing roar in his ears, the taste of metal in his mouth.

“Oh,” he realizes, either in his head or out loud, he’s not sure. “I’m dying.”

But — but if he dies, who will feed Prince? Can Prince even get out, if Prompto doesn’t let him out? He would die in here, all alone. And what about his promise to Noct?

So he can’t die. But to not-die he’ll need the — thing. Anti-dose. _Antidote_. Does he have an antidote? Noct would know. Noct always knew what to do, or knows what to do, or will know. He needs Noct.

Somehow Prompto manages to drag himself into the bedroom, where he stares consideringly at the glittering monolith that watches him sleep.

“You’re.. not the best roommate,” he tells it muzzily, slumping against the wall. But then Prince is twining around him again, shoving his bony forehead against Prompto’s chest and his neck, and he remembers that he’s here to ask for help. For Prince.

Prompto doesn’t remember where he shoved the note that describes the ritual to summon Noct, but that doesn’t matter. He’s known it by heart since the day he left the Keep.

Something of the King’s… Prompto fumbles for the fishing lure that Noct handed him, with utmost solemnity, in the elevator to the crystal. “Seriously?” he’d asked, grinning. “Not, like, a sigil or something?”

“What do you think a sigil is?” Noct asked, clearly amused. Prompto flapped his hands.

“Some kind of... artifact??”

“It’s just another way to say symbol,” the prince snickered. “Anyway, why would I give you a sigil? It’s supposed to be something of _mine_.”

“I thought you might give me your jacket,” Prompto said hopefully. Noct rolled his eyes.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said. “Just take the lure.”

Prompto chokes on hurt and wheezes. (Or is it blood he chokes on? Phlegm? He can’t be sure.)

 _A gift of blood_ … Well, he’s got plenty of that. He stretches out an arm to slap his palm against the crystal, leaving a streak of red. Strangely the stain looks brighter than it should, like it’s being — backlit, or something. But the crystal hasn’t glowed since it took Noct.

Prompto remembers the words, but he’s not sure he can say them right. His tongue feels slow and numb.

“King of Kings,” he either thinks or says, and _oof_ , he’s really gonna have to figure out which one is true or else he’s gonna end up breaking his promise. “Lucis calls your… aid. Take respite, and resume this mortal coil.”

And that’s pretty much all he can do. Prompto puts his head back, flops an arm over Prince, and drifts.

###

“ _Shiva_ ,” he imagines someone saying, some time later, in the voice he imagines most. “Prompto??”

“Ss...zzorry,” he says muzzily, or thinks about saying. “Tried to… call for help. Phone’s busted.”

He tries to hold out his phone, except that someone seems to have swapped it out for a chunk of wood.

“Um, thanks,” the voice says, and drops it on the floor. “Give me one sec, okay?”

Prompto drifts. In the far, far distance, across a tractless sea of pain, he can hear Prince hissing furiously. He pictures the little guy’s tail puffed up like a bottlebrush and almost snorts.

“Okay,” that soft, low, _perfect_ voice says. There’s a green flash, and suddenly all the places in Prompto’s body that burned and ached are flooded with a searing, mentholated cold. Then the cool fades, and the pain is gone.

“Wh—” Prompto wheezes, suddenly not bleeding to death but still profoundly disoriented. “Where — Noct?”

“Here,” the voice says softly, and a warm hand clasps his. Prompto clutches at it like a lifeline.

“ _Really_?” he asks incredulously. The voice snorts.

“Really,” it says fondly. “Are you even, like, conscious? Do you need me to make another antidote?”

“ _Make_ an antidote??” Prompto echoes, baffled, because antidotes are more precious than gold. People can’t just _make_ antidotes. No one’s _made_ an antidote since—

“Noct??” he chokes out, blinking against the haze of his vision.

“Yeah, buddy,” the voice says drily. It sounds like Noct, but that’s impossible, because Noct is _gone_. It’s the only thing that Prompto knows is true. But — but it _sounds_ like—

“Noct,” he mutters desperately, optimistically. “Are you — are you okay? Do you need a break? I can pull you out.”

“You _did_ pull me out, you nerd,” the voice snickers. “I doubt you’ll remember this when you wake up, but if that’s what you’re thinking about _now_ , I’ll — leave you a note, I guess. I’m… okay. It’s kind of like…”

He can hear the voice saying something else, but it sounds further than before, like Prompto’s on a raft, slowly drifting away from the shore.

Prompto falls into quiet. He dreams about a misty forest where sunlight doesn’t just shine, it hangs in the air in glittering sheets. From the corner of his eye, he can see a small blue fox.

###

When he wakes up, he’s on his bed next to a puddle of blood big enough to drown in, and there’s a seam across his belly that wasn’t there before. He glances up to see — ugh — Prince _lapping up_ the blood, like some kind of tiny, adorable vampire.

“Stop that!” he screeches, startling Prince and sending him shooting back out the door.

“What _happened_?” he asks, of no one in particular. He remembers going out to check his trap, and he remembers getting ambushed, and then it all gets kind of — swirly.

A swatch of paper pinned to the crystal catches his eye, making Prompto’s heart lurch drunkenly in his chest. Suddenly _vividly_ awake, he stumbles forward and snatches up the note.

" _Hey Prom,_

_You’re gonna be really pissed at yourself but please don’t. You made the right call._

_I’m fine and not in pain. Time is weird there, but it’s not scary. _

_You’re so fucking cute and you scared the shit out of me. Don’t be reckless. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere? _

_I can't stay, it's not fair to everyone. I wish I could. But it’s not fair to me if you get yourself killed. You’re not allowed to die before I get back, okay? That’s an order._

_Missing you,_

_Noct_ " 

He doesn’t find the Carbuncle charm tucked under his pillow until later that week, but by then, he’s already acclimated to sweet, sunlit dreams.

###

#### two.

At the start of the second year, someone knocks on his door.

“Buhh?” Prompto sputters, incredulous. People don’t just _stop by_. There’s a quarter mile of daemon-infested darkness between here and the main road. He exchanges glances with Prince, who looks just as startled as he feels.

As the cat streaks for the safety of the bedroom, Prompto unhooks the safety on his pistol.

“Who’s there?” he says harshly.

“Prompto?” a high voice asks brightly. “This has _gotta_ be the right place. How many people are holed up in the middle of the desert, _homesteading_?”

“Iris??” he squawks, bounding up and tearing the door open. Sure enough, there she stands, better armored than the last time he saw her and noticeably beefier but otherwise unchanged.

“Iris!!” he shouts in her face, giddy and disbelieving, and catches her in a hug. She laughs, clearly surprised but not unpleasantly so, and (to his startlement) grabs him around the waist, hoists him off the ground and _squeezes_.

“Woah!” he laughs, feet kicking over empty air. “ _Buff_ Iris!!”

“Hah!” she crows, clearly thrilled. “You got that right. How’ve you been?” she asks, setting him down and raking a gaze over his kitchen (sparse but not dirty) and his clothes (which have, admittedly, seen better days). “Gladdy told me you were doing hermit stuff in the desert, but I kinda assumed he was exaggerating.”

“Hermit stuff!” Prompto sputters, offended. “I’m — I’m not here for the atmosphere! I’m—”

He hesitates. It’s been so long since he talked to anyone that for a second, he forgot what is and isn’t a secret. Does Iris know that Noct’s in the crystal? Iggy knows. Gladio knows. Did they tell anyone else?

His gaze swings toward Iris, still waiting patiently, who hasn’t even said a single word about how bad he must smell, and he softens.

“Look,” he says. “I — did your brother tell you about Noct?”

Some of the light goes out of her. When Iris frowns, it turns down the saturation of the whole room.

“Yeah,” she says. “He said — ten years, right? But he’s coming back, and he’s still out there. Or _in_ there, I guess. Locked in the—” Abruptly, her eyes widen. “ _Ohhh_ ,” she goes. “Duh. That’s why you’re doing hermit stuff, huh?”

Prompto shoots her a sad smile.

“Do people ever tell you you’re very perceptive?”

“All the time,” she says sagely. “Come on. Let’s walk and talk.”

###

Iris insists on dragging him along for her “warm-up” — a steady stream of violence inflicted on a whole surging _sea_ of daemons.

“I’m here for a hunt, actually,” she tells him, swinging a greatsword as tall as she is through the reticulated abdomen of an Arachnae. “Cindy asked me to help out with a critter that’s been tearing up her fence.”

“A daemon?” Prompto asks, surprised. Daemons don’t often stray into Hammerhead’s headlights.

“Probably just a starving dualhorn,” Iris says, shrugging. “Still making trouble for Cindy. And _that_ I can’t abide.”

“Brother I hear that,” Prompto snorts. Iris snickers and beams at him.

“It’s really good to see you,” she says, sounding like she means it. “You seem — and no offense meant — like you kinda need it. Prompto,” she says suddenly, catching him by the wrist. Prompto turns to listen, but instead of talking she yanks him around her in a wide arc just in time to swing him clear of a Reaper’s scythe. “Have you considered setting up a life where you aren’t always alone?”

For a second he just gapes at her. Then a blur of motion catches his focus, and he surges back into the fight.

###

It’s been maybe six months since Prompto last talked to anyone. Well, okay, he talks to people all the time. But one of those people is a cat and the other is a crystal, so maybe that doesn’t count. Anyway, it’s definitely been six months since he had a conversation with someone who could talk back.

It’s _nice_. If it was anyone else, it might have been hard, too, but Iris has always made herself so easy to hang with and it’s like, the smoothest possible transition back into being a person. So of course he finds himself telling her way too much, pouring his guts out on his makeshift couch about how he promised to be there when Noct got back, and how the only thing that matters is keeping Noct safe. Iris nods wisely and goes “mmh” at key moments, and in the end she crosses her arms and gives him a firm nod.

“I get it,” she says. “I get how you ended up here! I can totally see all the choices that led you to this moment. But I still think you’re in a bad place.”

“I’m not—!”

“I’m not telling you to move to the city,” she says soothingly. “I get the protective instinct, and honestly, I think you’ve got a point. I’m just saying, invite someone over once in a while!”

“They’d come by if they wanted to,” Prompto says bitterly, and then covers his mouth. “Shit. Sorry. Haven’t — talked in a while. My filter’s rusty.”

“No, I get it,” Iris says sympathetically. “But be realistic, Prompto. You’ve made yourself _really_ hard to visit.”

Prompto thinks about it. She’s not exactly wrong, is she? He’d assumed that Iggy and Gladio were ignoring him because they were angry, but… he _did_ move to a godsforsaken corner of the desert, a quarter mile from a garage that’s already the last speck of civilization in an endless sea of darkness.

“Huh,” he says faintly. “Did you really come out here just to check on me?” he asks, because he’s still half-drunk off of human company and is not above asking for affirmation. Iris grins at him.

“I really did,” she confirms. “Look, Prompto, Gladdy’s an idiot,” she says earnestly, making Prompto snicker. “He’s his own worst enemy. Ignis isn’t dumb like that, but he’s proud, so he still gets in his own way. But they’re still worried about you. Gladdy must have asked me six times if I was gonna stop by when I was in the area,” she snorts, which makes Prompto squirm a little because — really? But Gladio hates him, surely. Doesn’t he?

“You’re close enough to Lestallum to have cell service, right?” she asks.

“Cindy’s got her own tower set up.”

“Give them a call,” she suggests. “Or a text, if a call is too scary. I’m pretty sure you’ll all be happier for it.”

Prompto grins at her, startlingly fond.

“You’re a great kid, dude,” he says. “ _Geez_. You don’t gotta… You’re really cool, Iris.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she scoffs, a brassier, flashier version of Noct’s easy confidence, and Prompto feels the hole in his chest yawn wider. He winces, tightens up a little.

“Yeah,” he forces himself to say, cause he’s not a _complete_ hermit; he’d never leave someone hanging. “I mean — anyway. Yeah. Thanks for the tips. What the heck have you been up to, anyway?”

Iris has been fighting daemons. She’s got a million stories, each wilder than the last, and the night quickly devolves into a series of Iris’ greatest hits. By the time she packs up, Prompto’s pretty sure he hasn’t laughed this much in a year.

“Uh,” he says. “You should — I mean, feel free to swing by anytime, dude. Consider this your desert retreat.”

“I _will_ ,” she assures him. “That’s the new world, right? Never enough food and way too much time.”

###

It takes him a day to work up the courage, but Prompto drafts a text to Ignis.

 _hey_ , the text says. _sorry if this is stupid but i miss you. would u wanna hang out sometime.....??_

He’s startled to hear his phone ring almost immediately after he hits send. Prompto juggles it between his hands for a second before he picks up.

“H— hello?”

“Prompto?” Iggy’s voice asks, so overwhelmingly familiar that Prompto almost starts crying. “My text to voice software is malfunctioning, I’ve requested new hardware but of course supply chains are… But I heard your ringtone, and thought that I’d best be safe.”

“I appreciate that,” Prompto says softly. “Um. No, there’s no crisis. The crystal’s safe.”

“And you?”

Prompto feels sentiment well up behind his eyes.

“Y— yeah,” he says. “I just texted to say that I, um. Miss you guys. And… I wondered if you might want to get together sometime.”

There’s a long, excruciating silence. Prompto briefly considers saying _haha, never mind_! or doing an impression of cell phone static and then hanging up. Before he can decide which to do, though, he hears a faint, warm chuckle.

“I feel much the same,” Iggy admits. “Though my days of driving through the desert are behind me. You shall have to come to me, or I shall have to secure a ride.”

###

It’s not easy, the first time.

Iggy loves driving and can’t, and driving stresses Gladio out but he doesn’t have a choice, so no one’s happy as they pour out of the car.

Prompto agreed to meet them at the garage, not out of fear that they’d get lost — his homestead is the one bright spot on the horizon — but in the hopes that having Cindy as a neutral third party might make the reunion less awkward. Unfortunately, when he gets to Hammerhead, he finds Cindy literally _inside_ her new project, a monster truck that she hopes will be big enough to plow through the daemons. He calls her name a few times, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. So Prompto’s on his own.

“Hey, guys,” he says weakly, waving, as they pull up. “Uh. Long time no see?”

Iggy wants to see his place and Gladio wants to see the crystal, so they make their way across the desert with the big guy in front, cutting a bloody swathe through the daemon horde. When they get to his place, Gladio looks faintly impressed.

“Like what you’ve done with the place,” he says. And then, to Iggy: “He’s still living in that airship. But he’s got it hooked up to all kinds of tanks and pipes and stuff.”

“Yeah, I… have a lot of free time,” Prompto says lamely. “So I do a lot of upgrades.”

“Hmh,” Gladio grunts, which could either mean ‘ _you wouldn’t have so much free time if you were out making an actual difference in the world, like we are, you selfish ass_ ’ or ‘ _oh_.’ Prompto tries not to obsess over it.

“Come in, come in!” he says, gesturing manically. “I’ll show you around.”

Iggy unpacks the dinner he made for them, which has gone cold on the drive over but still smells better than anything Prompto has smelled in his entire life. The smell is so rich that Prince actually shows himself halfway through dinner, even though he’d usually never let a stranger catch a glimpse of him.

“A cat?” Gladio asks, looking surprised.

“Yeah!” Prompto says, relieved to have something to show them that isn’t totally depressing. “Prince, meet Iggy and Gladio. Guys, Prince.”

“Prince, huh?” Gladio rumbles, glancing at Iggy and quirking an eyebrow. Iggy can’t see him, obviously, but to Prompto’s amusement, he turns toward Gladio at the exact same moment (though unlike Gladio, he’s polite enough to keep his expression neutral).

“Uh huh!” Prompto confirms, pretending he didn’t notice. “Almost lost an arm trying to rescue him, but it’s nice to have another roommate.”

“ _Another_ roommate?” Gladio echoes. “Who’s the first?”

Prompto’s face falls.

“Oh,” he says. “Well. Uh. _You_ know. It’s… um, it’s Noct.”

Gladio’s face hardens.

“I just remembered I left something in the car,” he says, pushing his chair back from the table with a loud screech. “I’ll be right back.”

The whole airship shudders when the door slams behind him. Iggy sighs.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” he says. “We all mourn in our own ways.”

“But—”

“Gladio is Noctis’ Shield,” Ignis says gently. “His sole purpose is to shield Noctis from that which might harm him. He feels that he has failed, incontrovertibly and irreversibly. So he does not like to think of it. What is a Shield with nothing to protect?”

“But _I’m_ Noct’s—” Prompto starts to protest, and then realizes that he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Noct’s best friend? Too narrow. His boyfriend? He’s not sure making out in an elevator gives him a fair claim on a relationship. Prompto sags, and the fight goes out of him.

“You know he’s coming back, right?” he asks, in a small voice. “Noct, I mean, not Gladio. He really is coming back. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” Iggy says, with so much certainty that Prompto’s eyebrows go up.

“You — you believe me?”

“Of course,” Iggy says again. “You would not lie about something of such import. Besides, I received certain — insights of my own, on the day that I wielded the power of kings. I saw Noct’s return.”

To everyone’s surprise (but no one more than Prompto), Prompto bursts into tears. Now it’s Iggy’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“Do _you_ believe it?” Iggy asks neutrally, plucking a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handing it over.

“Of course I do,” Prompto snivels. “He _promised_. But I just — I can’t hear him, and I can’t see him, so all I have is this promise in my head and every day the memory gets a little darker. And soon I’ll only — remember that he promised, and I won’t even know how it sounded, or how he looked, or how it felt.”

“Ah,” Iggy says kindly. “You fear that you will forget him.”

“No!” Prompto gasps, horrified. “No, I _couldn’t_. I just… there’s already things I can’t remember as clearly,” he admits. “And it’s only been a year. What am I supposed to do if I can’t even have my _memories_?”

Ignis reaches out, his hand following the line of the table until it finds Prompto’s knee.

“The mind is a resilient thing,” he says softly. “When we lose something that we cannot live without, it begins to cloud over; the picture loses focus. But it does so to protect you, Prompto — to stop you from living for something that is out of your reach.”

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Prompto starts to wail, but Iggy’s grip tightens.

“Prompto,” he says mildly. “I can no longer recall the precise shape of Noctis’ face.”

The words die in Prompto’s throat. He stares, speechless.

“It has been longer, of course, since I saw his face or any. I can recall his voice with perfect clarity, and his hand at my back. I know the broad strokes. But the lines, the details… they are gone.”

“Iggy,” Prompto says miserably, placing his own hand over Iggy’s and giving it a squeeze.

“It feels horrible,” Iggy says, rigorously controlled, meticulously neutral. Only a trace of tension in his face betrays his true feelings. “It feels as though I’m allowing him to die. But I am not. Noctis will return, and when he does, I will pledge myself to him once more, just as I did when I was a boy. Until then... the memory is painful," he says softly. "Is it so terrible to shroud it in gauze, and allow scar tissue to form over the wound?”

The hole in Prompto’s chest throbs. His heart is a stone, sinking heavily into his gut.

“I don’t know,” he says, barely a whisper. “I haven’t — I thought maybe if I stopped living for him, it was — like giving up. Betrayal.”

Ignis gives him a sad smile.

“The only betrayal would be destroying yourself in his absence,” he says. “Noctis wants you to be happy. He has always wanted that. If that means finding a few more things to live for — a hobby, perhaps, or a purpose to drive you onward — then that is what he would want.”

“Are you kidding me?” Prompto laughs through his tears. “That guy’s a brat. He’d love it if I couldn’t live without him.”

Ignis chuckles.

“You have a point,” he says wryly. “But I suspect that he would love it more if you could live.”

Then the big guy thunders back in, looking defensive and maybe even a tiny bit contrite, and they spend another hour arguing about water filtration systems before Gladio pushes his chair back and sighs.

“Well, you’re still a punk,” he snorts. “And a pipsqueak. But it sounds like you know your stuff. If you ever wanna actually live in the world again, you could probably really help people with this.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Prompto says bashfully.

“Well, I do,” Gladio says firmly. “So think about it. And don’t be a stranger, okay?” he says, giving Prompto an affectionate whack on the shoulder that nearly knocks him off his chair. “You’ve got my kid sister worried sick. Pick up a phone now and again, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay,” Prompto tells him, beaming. “I’ll think about it.”

###

The next time Iris visits, she’s dragging a cart heaped high with rusting metal scrap.

“...Wow, you shouldn’t have,” Prompto says flatly. Iris wrinkles her nose at him.

“I’m calling in a favor, okay? Aranea and I are drowning in all this broken-down Empire crap and _someone’s_ gotta do something useful with it.”

“Fine, fine,” Prompto sighs, theatrically put-upon. “I guess if Aranea _needs_ me—”

“She specifically asked me to clarify that she does not _need_ your help,” Iris cuts in, eyes bright with mischief. “But that yes, okay, she would definitely appreciate the assist.”

“Hit me where it hurts, why don’t you,” he snickers, slamming a fist against his chest. “Hey, why don’t you bring Aranea next time?”

Iris flashes twin finger guns.

“No promises!”

###

So Prompto gets a new hobby, tinkering with broken-down tech and turning it into something new. It’s not a business exactly, because he’s not selling anything, but people drop off scrap when they can, and later, they come to see what there is to pick up.

For the first month he gets really into auto defense, putting together a whole series of daemon-scattering headlights and wickedly bladed hubcaps. Then he realizes that he’s probably better off leaving that stuff to the expert and diversifies.

He tries to keep it useful, for the most part: hand-powered flashlights with rechargeable batteries; motion detectors that strobe violently when tripped. But sometimes the best you can do is an aluminum fish that vibrates when you press the button on its fin. (“Iris warned me that the investment doesn’t always pay off,” Aranea snorts when she sees it. “But I can't say I expected _this_.”)

Once he’s churning out a steady supply of useful crap, Gladio starts joining Iris on some of the pickups. And after a few months of that, he starts dropping by without her.

“Found this inside a Hecteyes,” he might say, dropping a rusting, half-melted suit of armor onto Prompto’s porch with a reverberant _thud_. “Sorry about the smell.”

And later, after Prompto goes on a kick of particularly useless gadgets: “What’s this one do, shoot nerf darts?” Gladio sneers.

“No, that’s—”

And Gladio fires, blasting off a hot-pink laser that blows a pinprick hole clear through the west wall.

###

The next time Aranea drops by, she’s hauling an entire queen-sized mattress, rolled up into a tight bundle and slung over one shoulder.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks, with theatrical sympathy. She raises an eyebrow at him and turns abruptly to the left, swinging the end of the bundle into Prompto’s shoulder and knocking him clear off his feet.

“Oops,” she says, utterly remorseless. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

“Yeah, well, _I_ do!” Prompto wheezes, doubled over.

“And yeah, you got me,” she deadpans, rolling her eyes at him. “Iris dumped me, so I figured I’d shack up with a stringy pipsqueak in the middle of the gods-damned desert.”

“I knew it!” he says jubilantly, batting his eyelashes at her. “I been playing the long game, baby, and it finally paid off.”

Aranea holds her glare for another beat and then smirks. She’s got no tolerance for weakness, usually, but she's developed what might normally be called a _soft spot_ for Prompto, except that there’s nothing soft about Aranea. Teaming up with Iris has sanded off her sharpest edges, but she’s still as hard as folded steel.

“The bed’s for you,” she says. “Iris thinks you could use a guest room. Says if _Gladdy_ complains one more time about having to be designated driver, she’s gonna throw him out a window.”

“Hmm, I dunno. I hate to get in the way of a good defenestration.”

“Hey, you don’t want it, I’ll take it back,” she threatens, already turning away.

“I want it!!” he shouts, making grabby hands at her until she loses her patience and swings it into his gut.

###

By the start of the third year, Prompto’s fallen into a pretty steady rhythm.

Iggy and Gladio drop by once a week, the latter dragging a sack of broken weapons and daemon parts and the former bearing three steaming bentos. Iris swings by once a month-ish, occasionally with Aranea but usually without, to drop off another pile of scrap metal and help him clear out any encroaching daemons. Prompto still talks to the crystal, but he talks to people, too.

The hollow ache doesn’t go away, but he brushes against it less often. He's not great, but he's — okay, most days, or at least _some_ days. He keeps busy. He gets by.

###

At the end of the third year, Iggy calls him up about a problem.

“Prompto,” he says crisply, when Prompto picks up. “We have a problem.”

“Uhh,” Prompto says, his eyes flicking toward the crystal. “What kind?”

It turns out that there’s a minor plague running its course in Lestallum, ravaging the refugee camps and obliterating the city’s already grim morale.

“Of course, the marshall prepared for such a contingency,” Iggy goes on. “Apparently, His Majesty bade him hide away a cache of relief supplies — antibiotics and analgesics, bandages and salves and so on; and of course, enough rations to feed a small army.”

“Yeah, I dunno, Iggy,” Prompto tells him. “That kinda sounds more like a solution than a problem.”

“And it would be,” Ignis agrees. “Except that the supplies are stored safely in a Royal Tomb.”

“Ohh,” Prompto says heavily. “Shit.” Noct has the key to the Royal Tombs.

“I know it’s a bit of a shot in the dark,” Ignis sighs. “But since Noctis knew what awaited him in the crystal, I’d hoped he might have anticipated such a need, and — I don’t know. Left the key for us, or left some sign of how to find it.”

Prompto frowns, his heart stuttering a little. Noct _did_ say that Prompto should summon him if there was an emergency. Does this qualify as an emergency?

“People are dying?” he asks uncertainly. From the other line, he hears a long sigh.

“In droves,” Ignis says quietly. Prompto grimaces. It certainly _sounds_ like an emergency.

“I’m not sure,” he says distractedly. “I’ll — let me think about it, okay? I don’t think he said anything, but maybe — maybe I’ll come up with something.”

“Don’t take this upon yourself,” Ignis sighs. “I knew that the chances were slim. I hoped only that — but it’s all right. Some misfortunes are simply beyond our control.”

Prompto’s vibrating in place, feeling literally, _immediately_ too impatient for this conversation.

“Right,” he says distractedly. “I gotta go, Iggy. I’ll try to think of something, okay?”

“That’s very much apprec—”

Prompto hangs up.

####

Prompto is lucid this time. He knows what’s at stake. He knows what Noct has been doing in the crystal: basking in the divine light of Bahamut and soaking up pure celestial strength, presumably with the intention of blasting it at Ardyn like a firehose.

Noct told him not to call unless it was an emergency, but Prompto’s pretty sure this qualifies. Iggy’s not an alarmist. From the resignation in his tone, Prompto can guess that the situation is even worse than it sounded. Half the world is holed up in Lestallum right now, leaving humanity all too vulnerable. One bad flu season could decimate Eos. If there’s even a chance that he can prevent that, he has to take it.

He fills a bucketful of his precious filtered water — all he can spare, in the circumstances — and spends a frantic 20 minutes scrubbing himself with the least-filthy rag he can find before he remembers that he’s calling Noct to save hundreds of lives, not for a social call, and that he’s being, like, _catastrophically_ selfish. So that makes things easier. Noct probably won’t even stick around long enough to catch up. He’ll pop out, fork over the Key of Kings, and pop back into Bahamut’s bathhouse before dinner.

“No time like the present,” Prompto mutters.

He’s still got Noct’s fishing lure. These days he wears it on a chain around his neck, even though Aranea told him to his face that it looks incredibly stupid. And there’s a gash on his thigh from the last time he went hunting with Iris that’s still bleeding a little, admittedly because he can’t stop picking at it.

He hesitates. Is Noct going to be mad? He _did_ say it would be selfish to make the world wait any longer than was absolutely necessary. But if half of Lestallum dies before he gets back, what is there to save?

Prompto makes up his mind and scowls at the crystal.

“King of Kings,” he says to it, with as much resolve as he can muster. “Lucis calls your aid. Take respite, and resume this mortal coil.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the brownish smear of blood on the side of the crystal flares a brilliant scarlet, and violet light blazes from the heart of the crystal.

Prompto presses his eyes shut, half-binded. When he opens them, he’s not alone.

Noct stands in a cascade of blue light, flecks of radiant violet and indigo swirling over his skin like motes of dust on the wind. His dark hair falls over his brow in a way that should shadow his face but instead makes it glow all the brighter, like Noct himself is the source of the light. His eyes are the same startling blue of the sky just after sunset. He’s _perfect_.

Prompto tries to breathe and chokes, feeling strangely like he’s watching the scene play out in a dream. He opens his mouth but suddenly he can’t think of a single thing to say.

Noct looks down at Prompto, his gaze warm and knowing. Then his mouth twitches.

“Nice beard,” the chosen king says drily. “Did you shave the rest, or is that the only place it grows?”

“ _Noct_!” Prompto wails, and flings himself at him, catching him around the waist and sending him stumbling back against the crystal. “I don’t see you for three years and that’s all you have to say to me??”

He can feel Noct tighten up a little in his grasp.

“Three years,” Noct says quietly.

Then there’s a hand under Prompto’s arm, hoisting him upright. Prompto looks down and blushes but Noct’s other hand is under his chin, nudging his face up until they’re nose to nose, and all Prompto can do is stare.

Noct is the same and also different. There’s stubble (actual _stubble!_ ) on his cheeks and he looks a little broader, a little rougher, but his eyes are just as sure and wry and fond as they’ve ever been.

“I’m sorry,” Noct tells him softly, and kisses him.

All the exhaustion and despair washes off of his shoulders in an instant. Noct kisses him and it’s like catching moonlight on your tongue, like the first rain after a long drought. It’s like dawn after three years of night.

“ _Gods_ ,” Prompto moans helplessly, sliding his hands up Noct’s back and cradling the nape of his neck. “Gods, _Noct_.”

And for just a little while, there’s nothing more to say.

###

“H— hang on,” Prompto stutters, after spending a few minutes blissfully making out with the chosen king. “I have to— I called you for something important.”

“Yeah, duh,” Noct tells him. “What could be more important than this?”

Prompto grins helplessly, his heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

“Nothing, obviously,” he agrees, “but _also_ , the lives of half of Lestallum.”

Noct straightens up, the humor draining from his face.

“It’s okay!” Prompto says hastily. “They’re — there’s a disease going around, but apparently your dad made Cor stockpile a bunch of meds, so it’s — we can handle it. It’s just that the goods are stashed in a Royal Tomb.”

Noct’s brow furrows and then smooths.

“So you just need the key?”

“Basically!” Prompto tells him, shrugging.

“Well, shit, if that’s all,” Noct drawls, reaching into empty air. When he pulls his hand back, there’s a brass key winking in his palm. But when Prompto reaches for it, Noct folds his fingers around it, leaving Prompto pawing at a closed fist.

“What, you’re just gonna _take_ it?” Noct asks, affecting an expression of injurious hurt. “Without even showing me around?”

“Wh— I thought _you_ had to get back to saving the world!!” Prompto protests. Noct shrugs nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” he admits. “But come on. We’re giving the world ten years. It can give us ten minutes.”

A thump catches his ear. Noct stiffens, looking warily around, but it’s only Prince, who’s a lot less scared of strangers now that he’s used to Iggy and Gladio and Iris showing up at all hours of the day. The cat glares down from the top of a shelf and hisses, his ears tucked flat against his head.

“Your highness,” Prompto greets him. Noct does a double-take and then realizes that Prompto’s not talking to him.

“You got a cat!” he says, looking at Prince with interest.

“Hey, show some respect. You’re in the presence of royalty.”

With one gravity-defying leap, Prince crosses the room and springs onto Prompto’s shoulders. Once he’s draped over Prompto’s neck he lifts his head to glare at Noct, who grins right back at him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Noct drawls. “You _should_ be jealous. I _am_ gonna take your man.”

“ _Noct_!” Prompto chides, grinning helplessly. “Don’t tell him that!! Don't listen to him, Prince," he tells the cat, which ignores him. “I won’t let him come between us.”

“ _Prince_ , huh?” Noct echoes, smiling even wider. Prompto gives him a combative glare.

“You got something to say?”

“No, no, it’s nothing.”

###

Noct doesn’t stay long, because it wouldn’t be fair. Prompto does, admittedly also unfairly, briefly try to convince him to stay over before he remembers that the entire world will stay broken until Noct comes back and fixes it, and that he _can’t_ be the reason for even one more unnecessary death.

“You seem good, though,” Noct tells him almost shyly, before he leaves. Prompto raises an eyebrow.

“Good how? Other than my dashing good looks,” he adds, making the prince roll his eyes.

“I just mean — you got more plates,” Noct says. “And chairs. And all that weird trash out back. Almost like you’re actually seeing other people.”

“Of course I am!” Prompto says, indignant. “What, you thought I’d just sit on my hands till you got back?”

He doesn’t mention that that was definitely Plan A, before Iris showed up and knocked some sense into him, but somehow Noct seems to sense it anyway. He smiles sadly and bumps Prompto’s forehead with his.

“What about the others?” he asks, his face lined with guilt. “Is Specs okay? And Gladio?”

“Better than you’d think,” Prompto assures him. “Iggy definitely misses the produce section, but Gladio's friggin thriving. I think he'd be happy if you only purged half the daemons. Like, if they're all gone, he's gonna have to get a new hobby.”

Noct snorts, looking guilty but fond.

“Well, I’ll take it under advisement,” he says drily. “So you see them?”

“Almost every week.”

Every muscle in Noct’s body goes slack at once. He sags against Prompto, limp with relief.

“That’s… You can’t imagine how good that is to hear,” he sighs. “I just—” Pain lines his brow; he smooths it with obvious effort. “I just — wanna make sure you guys will be okay without me.”

“We’re okay,” Prompto tells him, nudging Noct’s nose with his own. “We’re holding on. Don’t worry about us, dude, we can wait. You’re worth it.”

###

When he calls Iggy to explain that he found the key in the pocket of Noct’s jacket, which, by the way, Noct left in his care before vanishing into the crystal, Iggy goes quiet for a long time.

“...Iggy?” he says nervously. “That’s — I mean, it’s good news, right?”

“Of course,” Ignis says, in a voice that says he’s still thinking. “It’s wonderful news. I’ll send someone to pick it up straight away. Thank you, Prompto.”

“See you Tuesday?” he asks hopefully.

Prompto can hear the smile in Iggy’s voice as he says, “of course.”

###

For a few weeks, Prompto’s a wreck. His friends are worried. He can see it in Iris’ worried smile, in Iggy’s pointed questions and even more pointed suggestions. But he can’t tell them the real reason why he’s relapsing so hard, so why bother trying? It’s not like they’ll ever understand.

Weeks go by, and months, and years. The hole in his chest never really goes away, but Prompto gets used to breathing around it.

###

#### three.

The first time Prompto summons Noct, he’s dying. The second time, it’s a bonafide national emergency.

The third time, he’s just fucking lonely.

He just waved goodbye to Iggy and Gladio, which shouldn’t make him feel lonely, but does. He loves them, of course, just like they love him. But Iggy and Gladio have each other in a way that Prompto has no one and no one has him — in a way that he _used_ to have Noct.

They brought over a rare vintage that Gladio unearthed from some horrible dungeon somewhere. Gladio only has one drink before dinner, cause he’s driving home. But Prompto takes a generous swig whenever the bottle comes his way, and even Iggy finds himself moved to pour a second drink and then a third.

By the end of the night, Iggy's flushed and his hair is mussed and he's shuffled his chair so that it’s right next to Gladio's. Prompto can see their knees brushing under the table, and the way Gladio’s gaze turns soft and fond when it lands on Iggy, and it’s — it’s just — look, he’s happy for them, okay? He’s glad they’re happy. He just maybe kinda wishes they would do it somewhere where he doesn’t have to see it.

By the time Gladio persuades Iggy to let him piggyback him back to the garage — clearly the rarest of events, a perfect storm of nostalgia and sleepiness and _drastically_ lowered inhibitions — Prompto’s ready to slam his head against a wall.

“I still don’t even know if they’re really dating,” he confides in the crystal, moodily. “Like, they _look_ like they’re definitely dating but if they were dating, wouldn’t they tell me? How can you be _that_ obvious and still think you’re being discreet? And why even bother being discreet?”

He heaves a sigh, tugging Noct’s jacket up over his face and breathing it in. It doesn’t even really smell like Noct anymore; it’s been at least two years since he left it here, but Prompto will take what he can get.

The crystal doesn’t answer. Prince does, though — he lets out a little trill and pushes his head against Prompto’s shin. Prompto sighs and scoops him up.

“I’m glad it doesn’t hurt in there,” he tells Noct quietly, running his hand over Prince’s back. “But it hurts out _here_. I’m — I’m not just waiting around all day, I see people and I do stuff and it’s not _horrible_ , it’s just… worse. Everything’s always worse. Nothing’s ever felt as good as being with you.”

Prompto flops back on his bed.

“I don’t even mean that in a romance way!” he sighs, eyes closed, pressing his palms over his eyelids. “Even when we were kids, just rattling around in that big old city, making trouble for your guards, it was already, _immediately_ the most fun I’d ever had. Remember that time we tried to sneak out to go night fishing?” he asks, snickering. “Oh my gods, I thought I was going to get _shot_. I’m pretty sure I ended up on a watchlist. That was so dumb,” he says dreamily. “I was so dumb for you, Noct. I woulda done anything you asked.”

The crystal doesn’t answer. It never does.

Abruptly, Prompto’s mood sours.

“It’s not _fair_ ,” he hisses, his breaths coming in quick and sharp. “I know everyone needs you but _I’m_ the one who loves you. I don’t need a single godsdamned thing from you and I’ll wait forever if that’s what it takes but I — I shouldn’t have to!! It fucking sucks, okay??”

He surges to his feet and actually _swings_ at the stupid rock, skinning his knuckles on rough stone. The sting of it sobers him up a little and he sags, wrapping his arms around his ribcage and squeezing.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs, welling up. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I just miss you so much it makes me crazy. There’s so much I never got to say… Do you even know that I love you? Everything got so bad so fast I didn’t even get the chance to _tell_ you. I really, _really_ love you, Noct,” he snivels, rocking forward to press his forehead against the stone. “I'll love you all alone for another five years but I really fucking wish I didn't have to, you know? I just… I just wish you were here.”

The dark behind his eyelids flares red.

Prompto’s eyes fly open in time to see light burst from the crystal, a hundred tiny tendrils of violet and white and indigo like brushstrokes in the air, brighter than any time before. He staggers back, dazzled, breathless, disbelieving, as a figure begins to take shape, like an inverse silhouette, even brighter than the surrounding glow.

Noct strides out of a cascade of glittering blue.

“So what’s the crisis?” he asks casually, glancing around. Then he catches sight of Prompto, tear-stained and snotty and speechless, clutching at his borrowed coat, too disoriented even to breathe, and his eyes go wide with worry.

“Prom?” he says urgently, surging forward to wrap his arms around Prompto. “What’s going on? Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s _fine_ ,” Prompto wails, and bursts into tears. It feels like he’s doing that a lot lately.

“Hey, hey,” Noct says desperately, running his hands over Prompto’s arms and down his back, like he’s gentling a horse. “Hey, you’re okay, we’re okay, right? I’m here.”

“Yeah, for a _second_!” Prompto wails. “Just long enough for me to -- just long enough for it to -- and then you’ll _leave_ and I’ll be alone again, like _always_ , and I can’t _bear_ it, Noct, I’d _rather_ die, I don’t want to -- I can’t _live_ like this, not for another--”

Abruptly he becomes aware of the pain in Noct’s eyes, a bottomless well of guilt deep enough to drown in, and he freezes mid-word.

“I’m sorry,” he says, still choking on his own hurt. “I’m sorry, Noct, I didn’t mean to -- I was just being dramatic, I’m fine, I’m totally fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Noct says miserably, but he doesn’t look like it’s okay. Prompto closes his eyes, mortified, disgusted with himself. Noct’s carrying the whole world on his back and now Prompto’s gone and made it even _heavier_ , heaping his own burdens onto the king’s trembling shoulders, as if Prompto’s heartbreak actually mattered.

“I’m really sorry,” he says helplessly, wringing his hands. “I didn’t mean to-- I shouldn’t have said that. Of course I’m fine! You know me, dude, I’m always fine, haha. I’m just -- drunk, and stupid, and I -- I didn’t actually summon you, you know,” he adds, a little defensive. “I didn’t say the words. I was just _talking_. So I wasn’t -- I just wasn’t ready, and then suddenly you were _here_ and I couldn’t--”

“--couldn’t get your mask on?” Noct asks harshly. “Didn’t have time to come up with a lie? Shiva, Prom, you don’t have to-- I wish you wouldn’t _lie_ to me!”

“I’m not--”

“You _are_!” Noct tells him, suddenly furious. “If I’m _hurting_ you, I want to know! I don’t want you to _shield_ me from it!”

“But you’re not!” Prompto swears, horrified. “Noct, it’s -- this isn’t your fault!! I -- won’t pretend I’m not hurting,” he admits. “But it’s not like you _want_ to spend your 20s in some cosmic prison. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he vows, cradling Noct’s face in trembling hands. “ _I’m_ the one who’s hurting me, cause I already know I can’t have you, not for years and years and years, and I still just--” He tries to stop there but the floodgates are open; there’s no reeling it back. “--I still can’t stop loving you,” he finishes quietly, miserably. “No matter how much it hurts. So I’m just stuck here, half-alive, loving a _ghost_.”

A hundred emotions flit across Noct’s face in an instant: hurt and helplessness and roiling, impotent rage and, suffusing it all, a startling rush of delight.

“You love me, huh?” Noct asks quietly. Prompto rolls his eyes.

“Obviously,” he huffs, to his feet. “Sorry. I know it doesn’t matter--”

“ _Prom_ ,” Noct says. “Of course it matters. _You_ matter. I wish you could get that through your thick skull,” he adds, fiercely.

“Well--” Prompto starts to argue, but Noct isn’t slowing down.

“I know you don’t think you matter,” he sighs. “But _I_ love you, even if you can’t. So can’t you just take my word for it?”

Prompto stares.

“You -- love me?” he asks, breathless. Noct rolls his eyes.

“Obviously,” he says, smirking a little. “Oh, but you said it doesn’t _matter_ \--”

“I didn’t mean it!” Prompto yelps. “I don’t know what I’m talking about! I was talking about _me_ , not you!”

“Yeah, well, you’re the dumbshit I love,” Noct tells him fiercely. “So if I matter, that means you have to matter too.”

Prompto opens his mouth to argue. What comes out is, “can I kiss you?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Noct drawls, and leans in.

Prompto can feel stubble scrape his chin, a testament to the years gone by. He can feel the warm of Noct against his palms, cords of muscle shifting under his grasp. Noct’s mouth on his, hard and hungry like he’s trying to eat him alive.

Prompto doesn’t get to keep him. He knows that. Soon Noct will turn away, and soon after that, he’ll be gone, out of sight and out of reach, leaving nothing but cold, implacable stone. But right now Noct is warm and solid in his hands, all twilight eyes and hot breath and hunger; and as they spill onto his filthy mattress, all Prompto can think is that he _loves_ him, Noct _loves_ him, they’re in _love_. It fills him up with warmth and light and giddy, breathless wonder, and for just a little while, there’s no room left in his heart to feel anything but grateful.

###

“You seriously didn’t do the ritual?” Noct asks him later, raising a dubious eyebrow, though the effect is somewhat dampened by the fact that he’s pressed so tight against Prompto’s back that Prompto can hardly tell whose limbs are whose, and is nuzzling into the nape of his neck like a lovesick cat.

“I swear!!” Prompto tells him. “I was just talking to you, like always, and it just started glowing. I thought I was having a breakdown or something.”

“Aw, babe,” Noct says, fondly condescending. “You talk to the crystal?”

“None of your business!!” Prompto shrills, covering his face to hide his crimson flush because oh my gods, did he say _babe_?? “And also, yes.”

Noct snorts and then sobers.

“It’s strange,” he says thoughtfully, tracing Prompto’s collarbone with two fingers. “All this magic stuff is supposed to be set in stone, you know? And then it turns out that the rules are more like guidelines, and everything you thought was divinely ordained was really just divinely suggested. _Wielding the ring will destroy any who’s not from the line of Lucis_ \-- unless you’re Ignis and you want it bad enough, and then you can lose your eyes and keep your life. _Here’s a ritual that’s been passed down for centuries; never forget these sacred lines_ \-- but if you do, no stress, you can just mope around crying at a rock and it’ll do the same thing.”

“Excuse me! Rude!!”

“Makes me wonder what else we can change,” Noct goes on, looking thoughtful. Prompto cocks his head.

“Is there something else you want to change?”

Noct shrugs diffidently, turns away. “Just thinking out loud,” he says lightly.

Prompto narrows his eyes. Noct never thinks out loud. He opens his mouth to as much, but what comes out is a huge, noisy yawn. Noct smiles, warm and fond.

“Poor Prompto,” he says, petting at Prompto’s neck and pressing a kiss to his temple. “You had a big night, huh? Lemme take you to bed.”

“I know you can’t stay,” Prompto pouts. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m sorry, are you asking me to leave? Gosh, I wouldn’t wanna overstay my welcome.”

Prompto catches him by the wrist before Noct can even _pretend_ to turn away, yanking him back and pulling him close.

“I take it back!” he says instantly. “Stay as long as you like. Stay forever.” _Please_ , he doesn’t beg, because he’s already made Noct miserable tonight; he couldn’t forgive himself for making it any worse. Noct smiles at him, starlight eyes crinkling.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he says. “I promise.”

Privately, Prompto resolves to stay awake all night, if that’s what it takes to make Noct stay. He turns over and nuzzles into Noct’s chest, wrapping his arms and legs around him and clinging like some kind of gangly hairless koala. Noct lets out a slow breath and pulls him closer. Prompto can feel the tension melting out of him, pooling into a gooey puddle of sleep-slack limbs and warm breath.

“I love you,” Prompto whispers into his chest, exhaustion blurring the words a little. “You’re not hurting me, okay? You’re like… the only thing that doesn’t hurt.”

He can feel Noct's breath rustle his hair.

“Well, I don’t love _that_ ,” Noct says softly, petting at his back. “But I’ll take it. I’ll hurry back, Prom. I promise. Ten years…” he muses, thoughtful. “Maybe it’s just another guideline.”

“Mh,” Prompto agrees sleepily. “That’s how long it took that other Noct.. S’got nothing to do with you. You’re way smarter than that guy,” he points out. “You know he _still_ hasn’t confessed?”

Noct huffs a laugh into Prompto’s hair.

“What an idiot.”

When Prompto wakes up, he can smell Noct in his sheets, and for a heady moment of perfect bliss, he thinks that Noct must have fallen asleep. He’ll open his eyes to find Noct inches away, hair mussed, his cheek creased pink where it pressed against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and soft, and Prompto will kiss him awake and it’ll feel like sunrise, like daybreak. He can already taste dawn on his tongue, silvery-bright as fresh snow.

But when he opens his eyes, he’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha ha… ouch. 
> 
> weird chapter this week huh! i guess this whole episode is kind of a treatise on the psychological impact of hope… like, noct has to disappear to save the world, but the difference between "the person you pledged your life to is gone with no explanation and no indication that he'll ever return" and "brb, see ya in 10" is ENORMOUS. of course it’s still a loss and should be grieved as such, and i do kinda get why the boys end up self-isolating in canon world of ruin (even though it punched me right in my dumb heart) — but i think that what canon fails to consider is that ten years is a friggin ETERNITY, and also that the human mind is just inconceivably adaptable. of course in the absence of any kind of closure it's easy to get stuck, but i feel like the injection of hope would make all the difference in their ability to like.... reach out for things that make them happy. 
> 
> ....on a less grim note, can u tell how much i friggin love iris? what can i say, i like ‘em emotionally intelligent, deceptively cheerful, and a lot sharper than they’d like you to think.


	7. dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh i should probably give this one more proofread before posting but i am a sniveling wreck, utterly destroyed, hoist on my own stupid petard, and i just couldn't wait to share with the class.

It’s been six years and eight months since Noct went into the crystal. Prompto knows even though he threw all his calendars away, because his stupid cell phone won’t stop telling him what day it is.

It’s a Tuesday, which means Iggy and Gladio are over for dinner. Prompto’s traps actually managed to snare a gopher this week, so Iggy gets the chance to fry up the rare, impossible luxury of _actual meat_ , sliced thin and fried in its own fat and then folded into three rice balls worth more than their weight in gold.

Needless to say, the guys are in high spirits. Prompto’s in a rare mood because for _once_ , he’s managed to convince them to stay over. (Ignis doesn’t like leaving Lestallum for too long, as if some horror will level the city the second he drops his guard. Prompto can’t exactly blame him. The last time Iggy turned his back on something, it got swallowed by a stone).

He can’t un-traumatize Iggy, but he _can_ do everything in his power to distract him. Fortunately, Iris and Aranea swung by last week, so he’s got a fresh crop of ridiculous stories to pass around.

“...so then Iris goes, _that’s no Reaper, that’s my girlfriend_!”

Gladio bellows a laugh, banging a hand against the table. Prompto grins at him. It’s nice seeing the big guy let loose for a change.

“I can’t believe she almost killed Aranea,” Gladio chortles, tearing up a little. “I never woulda heard the end of it.”

Prompto raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I dunno, big guy. Pretty sure Aranea woulda come out on top.”

“You kiddin’?” Gladio drawls. “Iris is an Amicitia. You think that counts for nothing?”

“Hmm,” Iggy puts in, diplomatic. “Yet Aranea possesses the superior reach.”

Gladio flaps a hand dismissively.

“That just makes her a bigger target. You ever fight someone as small as Iris? It’s like trying to punch smoke. Hah! When we were kids, she onc—” Abruptly, he stiffens. “Hold up,” he says warily, darting a distrustful stare over Prompto’s shoulder. “You got something in your room that glows?”

Prompto gapes. There’s only one thing in his room that glows, but he’s not allowed to talk about it in front of Gladio.

He jerks out of his chair and whirls around. Sure enough, there’s a haze of white light swelling from the threshold, clearer and brighter than the dingy dishwater glow of his fluorescents.

“Uhh,” Prompto says dizzily, stumbling toward his bedroom. “I, uhh—”

And then Noctis Lucis Caelum, Vanquisher of Daemons and the Chosen King of Lucis, bursts into the kitchen, wraps both arms around Prompto’s waist, hoists him off the ground and kisses him.

“ _Noct_??” Gladio bellows, pushing off against the kitchen table so violently that his chair skids backwards and clatters against the wall.

“ _Noct_?” Iggy says sharply, breathless. “I — _truly_??”

Prompto can’t answer, because Prompto’s focus has narrowed to a keyhole and all he can see is Noct, jaw bristling with unshaved scruff and eyes crinkled to happy slits, strong hands crushing at his waist, his mouth warm and wet and _perfect_.

“ _Dude_ ,” Gladio snickers, and then cackles outright. Then, to Iggy: “They’re making out.”

“ _I can hear that, yes_.”

Noct laughs into Prompto’s mouth and pulls away, smiling warm and easy and gods help him, Prompto never wants to see anything but that smile for as long as he lives.

“What are you doing here?” he asks giddily, drinking in Noct’s breath. “It’s — I mean I’m not complaining but it’s nowhere _close_ to ten years, dude!”

“Six, to be precise,” Iggy puts in. His voice is as even as ever, but Prompto can see his hands shaking. “And eight months, and fourteen days. Are we certain that this is real?” he demands. “And not some illusion? The Chancellor can change his appearance. I’ve _seen_ him do it.”

For a second Prompto’s heart sinks because he can’t — can’t _take_ this, can’t bear a single moment’s uncertainty. To have everything he wants dangled before him and then wrenched away, he _can’t_ , it’s too cruel—

And then Noct seizes Prompto and kisses him hungrily, rough and strangely urgent, sliding one hand up his back and tracing the lines of his face with the other. Noct licks into his mouth and Prompto’s lips part willingly; he tastes salt and he doesn’t care if they’re his tears or Noct’s, doesn’t care how Noct got here or why because he’s _here_ , he’s obviously, undeniably here in Prompto’s arms, his touch divine sacrament, his mouth a revelation, even sweeter than sunrise.

When Noct pulls away, Prompto’s left gasping, but not for air.

“It’s him,” he says faintly, once his mouth is working again. Noct smirks at him and then slips out of his grasp to turn to the others.

“Fellas,” he says, nodding to Gladio and stepping closer to clap a hand onto Iggy’s shoulder. “Long time no see.”

Iggy flinches at the touch, wound painfully tight. Noct sighs unhappily.

“Let me think,” he says quietly. “Mmh.. You once had to break into my high school cause Prom and I got locked in a supply closet. You like vanilla more than chocolate. After we fought you’d always make those pastries I like, so for a couple of weeks in high school I started picking fights on purpose when I was craving them.”

“You could simply have asked,” Ignis says faintly.

“Sure,” Noct snorts, “but that’d be reasonable. Did you forget what I was like at seventeen?”

“I could never,” Iggy vows. Noct winces, puts his hand back on Iggy’s shoulder.

“It’s me, Specs,” he says softly. “I promise. I’m back.”

“You better be,” Gladio rumbles, whacking Noct on the back hard enough to send him stumbling. “You did a real number on the kid.”

“Hey!” Prompto complains noisily.

“And if you think you can just waltz back in here like nothing ever happened,” Gladio growls dangerously, fooling literally no one, “well, then — you’re right,” he admits. “It’s good to have you back, Prince Charmless.”

“That’s _King_ Charmless to you,” Noct shoots back. “And I missed you too, tough guy. All of you,” he adds, glancing at them all in turn. Prompto stares helplessly, hope and self-preservation warring in his gut.

“You’re really finished?” he asks desperately. “You’re — this isn’t just a — visit, or something? You’re back?”

“I’m back,” Noct confirms, grinning. “I’m as pure as bottled water, baby. I’m full of love and light and I’m ready to kick Ardyn’s entire ass. So what’s up with you guys?” he asks cheerfully, smirking at Gladio’s disbelieving stare. “Having a dinner party, huh? And you didn’t even invite me? Here I thought we had something special.”

###

“Okay, but — _how_??” Prompto demands, a few minutes later.

They’ve migrated to the bedroom. Noct’s got his back against the wall and both arms wrapped loosely around Prompto, who’s stretched out in his lap with Noct’s chin resting on his head. Gladio’s sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, leaning against the darkened crystal. Iggy opted to stand where he can keep the toe of one shoe pressed against Noct’s leg, a constant reminder that he’s really here.

“How what?” Noct asks lazily, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Prompto’s ear. Prompto flails a little.

“How are you here!!” he shrills. “ _Obviously_! Ten years was — I thought it was, like, prophecy! Predetermined.”

“I had drawn the same conclusion,” Iggy agrees.

Noct shrugs.

“I think it _was_ ,” he says. “Prophesied. Written in the stars, or whatever. And then we changed it.”

“We?” Gladio echoes.

“I went in there to soak up enough light to banish the dark,” Noct explains. “Bahamut called it _reflection_. He didn’t explain what I was supposed to reflect on, just dropped me in a sea of memories and bounced. But it seemed like it was about — devotion. You know. _Love_ ,” he says, finally sounding a little embarrassed. (In his lap, Prompto tucks his knees to his chest and covers his face with his hands). “Anyway. I think Prom and I went off-script a little, back in the Keep. So… I guess I got a head start?”

“Seriously?” Gladio asks dubiously. With a critical squint: “ _The power of love_?”

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea!” Noct says defensively. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with Bahamut.”

“You’re alleging that curtailed your divine reflection by three years and four months by _confessing to your crush_?” Iggy asks, with withering disdain.

“Technically, I confessed,” Prompto squeaks, without uncovering his face. Noct nods evenly.

“Right,” he agrees. “ _Prompto_ curtailed my divine reflection by three years and four months by confessing to his crush.”

Iggy adjusts his glasses, his expression bone dry. Noct snickers.

“I think it helped that I was here,” he adds. “That the crystal was here, I mean. I couldn’t tell what was real, mostly, but I’m pretty sure I could hear his voice sometimes.”

“You could hear me??” Prompto shrieks, mortified. “ _Really_?”

“Isn’t that why you were talking to me?” Noct asks, amused. Prompto throws his hands up.

“Maybe at _first_! But I didn’t think you could actually _hear_!!” _Why didn’t you_ _tell me?_ He’s dying to ask, except that if Iggy and Gladio ever find out about the secret he’s been sitting on, he’s pretty sure they’ll _actually_ kill him.

“What, are you embarrassed?” Noct asks, smirking.

“Uh, _yes_??”

“Well, it appears that it all worked out for the best,” Iggy sighs, shaking his head in lingering disbelief. “I’m sure that Eos shall not be overly inconvenienced when daybreak arrives three years ahead of schedule.”

Against his back, Prompto can feel Noct stiffen. Curious, he peers over his shoulder. Noct’s face has gone suspiciously blank.

“What?” Prompto asks, squinting up at him.

“What?”

“What’s that face?”

“I wasn’t making a—” Prompto drills him with a glare, and Noct relents. “Okay, okay. I was—” He sighs. “I wanted to wait, to give you guys some time before — but Iggy’s right. The world needs the sun. You already waited six years,” he says, heavy and pained. “I can’t make you wait any longer. Which means…” he grimaces, unconsciously tightens his hold on Prompto. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.”

###

Prompto listens numbly as Noct explains about Providence.

He can feel the lightness that filled him from the moment he saw Noct steadily bleeding away. His heart is a stone, heavy in his chest and painfully cold.

Six years ago he might have yelled, or cried, or pushed Noct away and bolted into the night, where he could cry himself breathless without burdening anyone with his grief. But he's not the kid he was six years ago. He's dragged his grief behind him for six years and eight months. Disappointment is his constant companion. Prompto knows better, now, than to trust any fleeting happiness. He knows what happens when he lets himself hope. He hasn’t let himself hope in a long time.

From the moment he saw Noct, he knew it was too good to be true. The gods would never reward Noct for his service; they’d never just let him _live_. All they’ve ever wanted from Noctis is blood.

Prompto’s seen it a hundred times before. Every time Noct tapped into his bloodline in a Royal Tomb, Prompto watched a spectral blade materialize in midair and _skewer_ him. He asked about it the very first time, when the others were asleep. “Did it hurt?” he asked anxiously, wringing his hands. “It kinda looked like it hurt.” And Noct gave him a sad little smile.

“Yeah,” he confessed, without a trace of bitterness. “A lot, actually. It kind of felt like dying.”

 _Dying_. That’s all the gods ever wanted for Noct, all the whole loathsome world wants from him. They grab at his coattails and clamor at him with their need, demanding that he fight for them, kill for them, die for them. Why can’t they understand that Noct has more to offer them alive? Why won’t they even let him _try_?

Prompto should have seen it coming. Everything the gods touch, they destroy. The Oracle was theirs, and they led her by the nose to her own bloody funeral. It’s no wonder she wouldn’t let Prompto help her. When her time came, she was already browbeaten into submission, so thoroughly brainwashed that she’d wear her resignation as a badge of honor and call it _duty_.

 _Fuck_ the gods. They filled Noct’s head with visions and never stopped to ask if it hurt. They put a ring on his finger and used it to drink away his life, channeling bright noble spirit into pure destructive force, as though that were a fair trade and not an affront to everything good. The gods looked at Noct and saw _livestock_ , a prized ox strong enough to drag the whole world behind him. They looked at Noct and saw a key, a mindless tool to unlock the future they desired. They never noticed his fearlessness or his loyalty, his strong hands or his smart mouth, his storm-blue eyes sparking with mischief. They never saw _Noctis_. They never cared to. He was only a means to an end.

Across the bed he’s distantly aware of Gladio’s face twisting with fury, a snarl frozen mid-motion. Only Iggy looks curiously unmoved.

“It’s the only way,” Noct is saying somewhere, from a great distance away. “That’s what reflection was for, I think — giving me the space to understand what I’m fighting for, and who I’d die for. Everyone’s lost so much already,” he says heavily, but he’s not shaking, he’s not faltering. There’s no anger in his voice, no resistance. There’s only calm, passive acceptance.

Prompto feels ready to shake himself apart, because the gods _broke_ Noct. Six years ago, Noct was fierce and wild and hungry for life, until Bahamut ground the spirit out of him. Six years ago Noct was _alive_ , until the relentless crush of celestial apathy beat the last trace of hope out of him and left him hollow, a walking corpse slouching toward his own grave. Gone is his righteous fury, and his longing, and any want he might have for himself. All Prompto can hear in him now is resignation.

“No,” Prompto snarls, voice shaking. “No.”

“Prom,” Noct says miserably. “I know it’s not fair to you, but you have to underst—”

“ _No_ ,” Prompto full-on shouts, and he’s fucking shaking with fury. He can see Iggy pursing his lips and it makes him fucking _sick_ to think that Iggy’s just the same as Noct, that he’s already given up. “No! You think I fucking care what’s fair to me? This isn’t about _me_! This is about _you_ , Noct! They stole six years of your life and now they want the rest? Over my dead body,” he growls, low and furious. “No. No. We find another way.”

He forces his hands to stop shaking. He needs to make them see that he’s not being irrational, not throwing a tantrum or resisting the inevitable — that out of all of them, he’s the only one being reasonable. He didn’t swear an oath to Lucis or to Eos or to the heartless, pitiless gods. He pledged himself to Noct. _This_ is his resolve.

“No,” he says again, coldly now, wrenching himself out of Noct’s arms and turning to glare at him. “Magic is an art, not a science, right? That’s what you said. They give you all these stupid rules and they carve them in stone so you’ll think there isn’t any choice, but there _is_. There’s wiggle room, if you worm your way into it. Iggy used the Ring and he didn’t die. I summoned you out of the stone just by loving you hard enough. _We can change it_. They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he spits, hating the gods with every fiber of his being. “And they’re wrong. We’ll find another way.”

“What do you mean, you _summoned_ him?” he can hear Gladio asking in the background, but Prompto’s not listening. His eyes are trained on Noct, who’s looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“...huh,” Noct says to himself, quietly. “So many people have already given up so much,” he says slowly. “Luna, my dad—”

“And that was their choice,” Prompto snaps. “And it was all very _noble_ , but I’m telling you, dude, as someone who was there, who _watched_ Luna fall: _she did not have to die_.”

Noct’s face hardens. “You don’t know what you’re—”

“I _do_!” Prompto shrills, tears of frustration stinging his eyes. “I fucking — she could have got away!! She could have regrouped at a better vantage; could have brought backup to watch her back. Her brother begged to come along and she turned him away, because the gods told her it was _her time_. She didn’t argue. She didn’t even _try_. They were in her head her whole life," he says unhappily. "She was closer to the gods than anyone. Of course they got to her before we could. But I won't let them get to you. You're _ours_ ,” he snarls. “And you’re yours. _No one_ else’s.”

Noct opens his mouth. He closes it. Looking unusually unsure, he looks to Ignis.

“Specs?” he says helplessly. “Anything to add?”

“It is an interesting conceit,” Iggy says slowly, frowning. “More than one divine injunction has later proved to bear exceptions, and exemptions, typically when exposed to sufficient force of human will. So I suppose that it is — not _impossible_ that such an exemption might arise, even here.”

Noct stares. It’s clear that he was not expecting that.

“But,” he says. “But — to bring back the sun—”

“Oh, we’re _bringing_ back the sun,” Prompto says coldly, rigid with conviction. “But we’re bringing you back with it. This _Providence_ ,” he growls, spitting the word like a curse. “What exactly do we know about it?”

###

Twenty minutes later, here’s what they’ve got.

  * Once all Six covenants are forged, the crystal bleeds all its light into the ring, and the chosen king uses it to banish the Immortal Accursed, AKA the Usurper, AKA Ardyn Izunia — which will also, allegedly, bring back the sun. _Only_ by the True King’s hand can this go down.
  * Ardyn is immortal. At some point in the past bajillion years, _he_ had hoped to vibe with the crystal, but it didn’t take cause he was such a shitty guy.
  * Providence is the sole means to get rid of Ardyn. It’s the power of all the past kings and the Crystal combined, stronger even than the Six. And like all Lucian magic, it is a perverse little headfuck fueled by pain and sacrifice.
  * _Only at the throne can the Chosen receive Providence, and only at the cost of a life: his own. The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To cast out the Usurper and usher in dawn's light will cost the life of the Chosen._ (Prompto writes down the exact quote for this one, in case the phrasing is important).



“Okay,” Prompto says, his mind racing. He has to admit, it doesn’t look great. “Okay, okay, this is a brainstorm, no bad ideas. How about, uh… Okay, what about, we _stretch_ the Ring of the Lucii so it’s big enough to fit over all our fingers, and maybe it like, distributes the impact enough that no one dies?”

“That’s the dumbest idea I ever heard,” Noct says, snickering.

“Hey!!” Prompto shrills. “I said no bad ideas!!”

“I never agreed to those terms,” Noct sniffs. Prompto throws his hands up.

“Fine!! No bad ideas except Noct’s, which are considered bad by default!! Are you happy?”

“I’m never happy,” Noct deadpans. He’s lying. He’s been hiding a smile ever since Iggy threw his support behind Prompto’s suggestion that they find another way. Prompto grins right in his face.

“Well, luckily for you, I’m _always_ happy,” he says smugly. “So it balances out.”

“Can you guys stop flirting for ten minutes and focus?” Gladio rumbles, making Noct beam and Prompto blush. “We’re talking about taking on the _gods_. We’re gonna need a little more than a winning attitude.”

###

Unfortunately, a winning attitude is pretty much all they have.

“What about the chancellor?” Ignis asks wearily. Prompto and Noct shoot him twin glares. Ignis can’t see them, obviously, but he must have felt the temperature drop, because he holds his hands up.

“You said that he is of the Lucian line, did you not?” he asks patiently. “We would be remiss to not at least consider his place in this.”

“Ardyn’s a chaos factor,” Noct says dismissively, with audible dislike. “We can’t use him if don’t even know what he wants.”

“It feels as though _every_ consideration only introduces further uncertainty,” Ignis sighs, massaging his temples. “There is too much yet unknown… We know not even _how_ Providence should take the king’s life; nor whether the king’s death is a byproduct of the process, or the process itself.”

Prompto flops back to stare up at him.

“Okay,” he says blearily, with a shadow of his former resolve. “Okay, okay, so what about — what about curatives? I’ve died like sixty times, right? Why not just use a Phoenix?”

For a second, Noct just stares at him. Then he frowns.

“It seems like — it can’t be that easy?” he asks, more than says. “If it was, surely they wouldn’t frame it like this.”

“It’s not like the Six are going out of their way to think about it!” Prompto points out. “Do they even know about curatives? Or do they think humans die every time we take a hit? They’re asking you to die for them and they don’t even know what it _means_ ,” he laments, agonized. “When Luna died, if I’d — if I hadn’t been so useless, I coulda got her a potion. It’s not like there wasn’t time. If we stay by your side and stay close, maybe we can — you know, heal you while they hurt you, and keep you hanging on.”

Noct’s mouth twists.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “If the Crystal’s any indication, I’m not sure Providence is even something that happens in the physical world. And I have no idea what kind of forces will be swirling around that room,” he adds, looking uneasy. “The gods just pumped me full of power. It’s a whole different league. I can’t ask you to—”

“Okay, well, good thing you don’t have to ask,” Prompto snaps. Gladio snorts. Iggy raises his eyebrows. Prompto throws his hands up.

“I just mean — _I’m_ coming!! I know the big guy’s coming!”

“Damn right,” Gladio mutters.

“Iggy?” Prompto asks, turning to face him.

“Of course.”

Noct looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

“There’s no guarantee _anyone_ walks out of there alive,” he says miserably. “Even if you do, you won’t be the same. I already took your sight, Specs. What if next time you go deaf? Do you really wanna sign up for silent darkness, _forever_?”

“And what about you?” he goes on, rounding on Prompto. “You’re okay with never seeing the sun again? Never taking another photo? Cause that’s the _best_ case scenario! Maybe they’ll just break every bone in your body so you can’t move a muscle and then you can lie there, twitching, watching me bleed out, helpless to do anything about it. That’s what you’re signing up for. You okay with that?”

“ _Yes_!” Prompto insists, with feeling. “Literally, _yeah_! That sounds vastly better than the alternative, where we send you to your death and you bleed out alone and we can’t even _try_!”

“You’re not _listening_ ,” Noct says helplessly. “Divine power is unpredictable. It could burn out your memories and leave your mind empty, or cut fifty years off your life, or you could just _fry_ , on the spot.”

“You think I care about that?” Prompto demands. He barks a laugh, cold and humorless, and feels only the faintest pang of guilt at the way Noct flinches. Of course Prompto knows what’s at stake. _Noct’s_ the one who doesn’t understand. “There’s nothing you can say that will keep me out of that room,” he says fiercely. “And I’m pretty sure the same goes for all of us.”

“But—”

“ _Dude_ ,” Prompto says, plaintive. “Just — let me do what I need to do, okay? I—” he shudders, looks away. “I can’t let you go where I can’t follow,” he says hollowly, to his feet. “Not again.”

Noct’s hands go up and then drop back at his sides. He glances toward the others, looking utterly hopeless.

“Is there anything I can say to convince you?”

“Nope!” Gladio says cheerfully.

“I’m afraid not,” Ignis agrees. Noct throws his hands up.

“You guys are so _frustrating_ ,” he bursts out. “I’m sacrificing myself for _you_ , you know. If it’s gonna kill you too, what’s the point?”

“...to save the world from a maelstrom of daemons and an eternity of darkness?” Prompto suggests. Noct rolls his eyes.

“I didn't spend the last six years reflecting on daemons and darkness,” he mutters, finally shedding some of that noble kingly resignation. Somehow, perversely, hearing Noct sound outright petulant washes away the last of Prompto’s frustration, filling him with giddy optimism. Because Noct _deserves_ to sulk. He deserves to be human! He’s more than just a vessel for some higher purpose. He’s Prompto’s best friend.

Prompto beams at him.

“Well, that was your mistake,” he says condescendingly, patting Noct on the shoulder. “But hey, now you know better! We promise not to hold it against you.”

Noct scowls at him, but he’s not fooling anyone, least of all Prompto.

“You got awful full of yourself in the past six years,” he grumbles. “Before I went into the crystal, you never would’ve tried to tell me what to do with my own gods-damned destiny.”

“Well now I am older and infinitely wiser,” Prompto says sagely. “And you’ve been asleep for years, so you’re basically a young punk. Respect your elders.”

“Respect your _king_ ,” Noct shoots back, which is probably the first and last time that he’ll ever say something so stupid. Prompto actually laughs out loud.

“You’re _not_ my king,” he snorts. All three of the guys look baffled. “No, I mean — of course you’re the king, or whatever,” he says impatiently. “I just mean — you know I never cared about that, dude. That’s why you like me so much.”

That startles a blush out of Noct, to Gladio’s noisy amusement. Noct slides a hand behind his neck and glares at his feet, looking suddenly sixteen again.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters. “ _Shiva_. This is — really not going how I planned.”

“Cause your plan sucked,” Prompto supplies helpfully.

“It did include certain crucial oversights,” Iggy sniffs.

“Worst plan I ever heard,” Gladio agrees.

“All right, all right, I get it! Six, you guys sure got mouthy without me around to keep you in line.”

“Like you could ever keep us in line,” Gladio sneers. “Face it, Charmless. You’re stuck with us.”

###

Prompto expects someone to confront them when they pass through Hammerhead, but no one does. No one’s expecting the chosen king to roll up out of the desert.

It’s surreal, browsing the shelves with Noct at his side, just like they did a thousand times before. Prompto keeps jerking around to stare, just to make sure that Noct hasn’t evaporated into a pillar of light or something. But every time, all he sees is Noct, his dark eyes wide and noticeably shell-shocked by the burned-out wood and barbed wire, the chain link fence patched with steel plate from the last time it got mowed down by some poor half-starved grazer that never got around to evolving night vision. Prompto frowns and sidles up to him.

“It’s better than it looks,” he says quietly. “No one comes out this far, anyway. Everyone’s in Lestallum.”

“How’s it look over there?” Noct asks, and Prompto freezes because he never actually strayed far enough from the crystal to find out. Thankfully, Iggy comes to his aid.

“ _Crowded_ ,” he says emphatically. “But more or less organized, and bright enough to keep the daemons at bay.”

Noct doesn’t look any happier, but he keeps moving.

###

They make camp in a haven just outside of Insomnia. Prompto insists on zipping his and Noct’s sleeping bags together into one big mega-sleeping bag, but only because Noct is too proud to ask. They sleep curled like parentheses, with Noct's arm slung over Prompto’s chest and Prompto's foot hooked behind Noct's ankle.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Noct murmurs, close against Prompto’s ear, before they fall asleep. “None of you. I’m dying for _you_. If I take you down with me, what’s the point?”

“Well, I kinda think there’s a flaw in the premise there, buddy,” Prompto points out. “Cause you’re not dying for _anyone_. You’re not dying. We’re not gonna let you.”

Noct sighs, his hands curling into fists and twisting at the fabric of Prompto’s shirt.

“I know you have to say that,” he says unhappily. “I understand why you have to believe it. If it was you…” A shudder moves through him. “It’s not like I _want_ this,” he sighs. “Of course I want more time with you — with all of you. But this is bigger than that. The world needs a fresh start, Prom. They need the sun.”

“Look,” Prompto tells him fiercely, squirming around until he can glare right into Noct’s eyes. “I like sunbathing as much as the next guy. But I’m not about to kill for it. If the new world is built on a foundation of human sacrifice, then it’s a shitty world and _I don’t want it_.”

The breath huffs out of Noct. His eyes are wild as he leans in, closing the space between them and finding Prompto’s mouth with his.

This time it’s Prompto who’s impatient, forceful, hungry. He licks into Noct’s mouth and teases out his tongue, sinks his teeth into Noct’s lower lip and bites down hard, trying to _bruise_ the will to live back into him. He rakes his nails down Noct's back, squeezes at his ribs like he's trying to crush him, wishing that it would be enough.

Noct's breath quickens. His hand slides down the small of Prompto's back and lower still, squeezing at the curve of his ass and pulling him roughly against him. Suddenly the friction is too much to bear and Prompto can't suppress a whimper, he needs more, he _needs_ —

“We’re awake, you filthy animals,” Gladio’s voice rumbles from the dark of the tent, and Noct and Prompto spring apart: Prompto blushing, Noct smirking.

“I may be blind,” Iggy puts in, in a tone of utmost distaste. “But my hearing is exceptionally keen, thank you very much.”

“Sorry!” Prompto squeaks.

“Well, I’m not,” Noct says smugly. “Prompto can be sorry for both of us.”

###

Insomnia doesn’t look good.

Prompto hasn’t been home since the first time they turned back, all the way back in Galdin Quay. Last time they went home, the king died.

Prompto scowls, reaches for Noct’s hand and squeezes. This time will be different.

Still, it’s hard to look at the city that raised him and _not_ feel like it’s a bad omen.

Here is the western wall, where Noct once snuck him through a labyrinth of dried-up sewage pipes that funneled into the outside world, beyond the wall. With his blazer unbuttoned and his tie draped loose around his neck, Noct led him through the dark and into a verdant glade dappled with daylight, and Prompto got to hear the creak of wind in old-growth trees for the first time in his life. Sixteen-year-old Prompto couldn’t believe his eyes. He took pictures of _everything_ , the way the wind stirred the leaves in dizzying spirals and the way the sun made the pollen shine like glitter, while Noct napped in the grass and feigned disinterest — until Prompto tried to take an aerial shot and lost his grip and fell clear out of a tree, at which point Noct laughed so hard he had to excuse himself so he wouldn’t pee his pants. The manhole cover that hid the tunnel is still there, but now it’s warped and bent upward, like some slimy, slithering thing has been trying to bash its way out.

Here is Caelestibus Square, home to their favorite arcade, the first place they went after Prompto finally gathered the courage to ask Noct if he maybe wanted to do something other than pretend to study. A decade ago, it was a kaleidoscope of color, garishly decorated with neon signs and flashing lights and absolutely _terrifying_ animatronics. When he squints through the shattered, ashen glass, Prompto can still see Dotty the Friendly Dualhorn, half her face sloughed-off and sagging to bare rusted beams of skeletal steel.

Here is the bus stop Prompto took to get home from school, the bench spattered with something crusting and black; and here their favorite Steak-n-Shake, reduced to a mere Shake by whatever fiend crushed half the sign. Everything is familiar and unfamiliar at once, like looking in the mirror and finding yourself staring at a grinning skull. Prompto’s startled by how much it _hurts_. He wraps an arm around his ribs and shudders.

A hand grazes his knuckles. He looks up to see Noct, of course, watching him worriedly, even though this is _Noct’s_ city and Noct’s the one who wants to die for it.

“I’m fine,” Prompto tells him, taking the hand and squeezing it gratefully. “Looks like Dotty’s seen better days, though,” he adds, nodding at the arcade, and he’s relieved to hear Noct snicker.

###

They’re closing in on the Citadel when they finally bump into Ardyn, who looks almost as surprised to see them.

“Do you know, you’re ahead of schedule?” the deathless embodiment of darkness drawls, glancing at his wrist (which is distinctly devoid of a watch). “I didn’t expect you for another three years. Oh, I’m not complaining. I’ve missed you terribly. Family is so important, don’t you think?”

Noct snarls wordlessly and wings a blade through Ardyn’s chest. The Chancellor looks down at it with an expression of utmost bemusement.

“Shall I take that as a no?” he asks lightly. “But I’m the only family you have left, dear Noctis. You ought to be more careful with me.”

“I’ve got plenty of family,” Noct growls. “And you’re _not_ my family.”

Ardyn clasps his hands before his heart, affecting an expression of injurious hurt.

“Children can be so hurtful,” he sighs. “Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal. Yet I can find it in my heart to be the bigger man,” he says nobly. “I got you that puppy you’ve always wanted! He awaits you at the Citadel. I _do_ hope you like him.”

“I’m more of a cat person,” Noct says coldly, slipping a hand into his pocket. Prompto knows what’s in that pocket. His own hand moves without thinking, flicking out to close around Noct’s wrist.

In the street before them, Ardyn raises his hands in supplication, wearing an expression of all-suffering nobility.

“I can see that there’s simply no winning with you,” he sighs. “I’ll see you at the top, _Your Majesty_.”

“Wait,” Prompto hears someone say. It takes a second to realize that it was _him_. Ardyn glances over, looking like he’s only just noticed that Prompto is there.

“Ah, of course,” he says knowingly, to Noct. “You don't want _my_ dog because you've already brought your own. What is it, boy?” he asks Prompto. “Do you wish to apologize for that unsightly growth on your chin? That’s very considerate, but I assure you it’s not necessary — I hadn’t spared it a second thought.”

“You hate the astrals, right?” Prompto asks, ignoring him. This time, the surprise that flickers over Ardyn’s face looks almost genuine.

“I suppose we’ve had one or two differences of opinion,” he says lightly.

“Well, so do we,” Prompto says fiercely. Ardyn’s eyebrows go up. Noct drops his head in his hands.

“Prompto, _please_ ,” Iggy puts in, sounding pained. “It would be wise to watch what you say, in the circumstances.”

“Okay then, so do _I_ ,” Prompto says, doubling down. “Is there any way to play this where you screw them instead of us? I mean, like… Don’t you think they’d be embarrassed if it turned out they bet on a losing chocobo? If the Chosen King defected, and the Usurper brought back the light?”

Now Ardyn looks downright amused.

“My goodness,” he purrs, his eyes glittering. “Aren’t you the blasphemous one? Lose your faith?” he asks sympathetically. “You must have had a trying few years. But I’m afraid that the astrals would never allow it, little heretic. Not so long as their chosen champion breathes.”

Prompto scowls. He was afraid of that.

“But—”

“ _Prompto_ ,” Noct says, in warning, and Prompto’s jaw clacks shut. Ardyn smirks at him.

“At least he’s well-trained,” he says silkily. “Now I’m afraid that I ought not dally any longer. It’s not as though I’m not enjoying this little lovers’ quarrel, but I’ve preparations to make, and a throne to claim. Always a pleasure, nephew,” he adds, tipping his hat at Noctis. “I’ll see _you_ at the top.”

When the Chancellor is gone, Noct turns to glare at Prompto.

“I was just checking!!” he says defensively, before Noct can say anything. “Didn’t Iggy say we should think about it?”

“Yeah, amongst ourselves, not _with Ardyn_ ,” Noct snaps. “That guy tried to get me to throw you off a moving train.”

“He tried what now?” Gladio asks, in the background.

“I understand how you feel, Prom, but no one’s gonna do this for me,” Noct says firmly. “I can’t stop you from coming with me, but _you_ can’t stop _me_ from doing what has to be done. No more impulse decisions without consulting us. Okay?”

“Okay,” Prompto mutters, feeling — humiliatingly — exactly like the chastened, guilty dog that Ardyn always calls him. Noct softens.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get to the Citadel. I hear my great-great-grand-uncle got me a puppy.”

###

Ardyn _did_ get him a puppy. Unfortunately, the puppy in question has three heads and a scorpion’s tail long enough to curl around the block.

Prompto can’t even bring himself to mind. After all those years beating back the daemon hordes alone, fighting back to back with Noct is an impossible luxury, a giddy (albeit _terrifying_ ) pleasure that thrills him to his core. Somehow, in spite of the time that’s passed, they’re not a step out of sync. When Prompto misjudges the recoil on his gun and goes flying backward, Noct is right behind him, catching him before he can hit the ground. When Noct warps in close to gouge a bloody trench through the beast’s hind leg, Prompto slides _between his legs_ to fire a whirling sawblade straight into the wound, spattering them both with hot black blood and cleaving its paw clean off, leaving it unsteady and off-balance.

After that, they make quick work of it.

“Hell _yes_ ,” Gladio says, with feeling, once they’re standing around a steaming corpse bigger than Prompto’s airship. “ _Damn_ , that feels good.”

“Lemme get a picture!!” Prompto shouts, still high on adrenaline, and the guys are so giddy from the fight that a moment later they’re all crouched around the monster’s bleeding maw, cheesing hard and flashing peace signs.

But of course, it was never gonna be that easy. The whole Citadel is sealed behind the Wall: once Insomnia’s greatest defense, now the last obstacle in the way of its freedom. And the daemon hordes are getting awfully antsy.

“What do we do?” Prompto asks helplessly. “There’s no way through.”

“And no way _out_ ,” Gladio points out. Noct scowls.

“We can’t just give up,” he says, squaring his jaw and slipping the ring onto his finger. Prompto hates it, but he doesn’t stop him. What’s the alternative? They can’t just die here.

Then Noct’s breath catches in his throat and he whirls, half-stumbling, unsteady on his feet, eyes wide and bright with hope. “Luna,” he breathes.

“What?” Prompto sputters, turning, but sure enough, it’s her: clad in white silk and an expression of pure devotion, with the kind of posture that would make a chiropractor weep with joy.

“Luna,” Noct says again, all desperate longing and painful yearning, and Prompto pretends not to notice the dagger of pure cold that it lodges in his chest. Because that’s stupid. Of course Noct loves Luna. How could he not?

The Oracle gives Noct a look of warm, unfettered affection. But when she speaks, it's not to him.

"Gods above," she says fiercely. "Hear my plea and lend the Chosen King your strength, that he might save our Star from darkness' blight."

(Prompto can't help but think that he'd greet Noct first, if it was him. He’d find out how Noct was doing and _then_ call upon the gods. But that’s why she’s the Oracle and he’s just some plebe.)

Still, it gets the job done. Gentiana steps smiling out of empty air and drops a few lines of cryptic, stilted prose, and then lightning rends the sky, and suddenly the city is alight with a whole gods-damned _orgy_ of power.

Ramuh is first. He’s always been the most agreeable, the likeliest to drop by even when they’re only fighting a few Gigantoads and really weren’t hurting for divine intervention. Once he's reduced the daemon hordes to so much sparking static, it's Gentiana's — no, _Shiva's_ turn. In a hundred bodies at once, she flash-freezes the wall where it stands, sending sheets of milky white rushing up the Citadel. Even Leviathan shows, leading the Brute Force Squad alongside Titan, who pummels the frozen Wall with earth-shattering force.

“Guess that’s it,” Prompto says weakly, as plates of ice and solid magic begin to crumble away — and then a whir of motion catches his eye. A glittering wheel of spectral blades is forming in the sky. At its heart he can see a figure, gold-clad and thickly plated and radiant. _The Draconian_.

His lips peel back into a snarl. Even from here he can see Bahamut's face, cold and implacable, hewn from hammered steel except for those startlingly human eyes. _We didn’t even need you_ , he wants to say. _The wall was already falling. You just wanted the credit. Luna did all the work, the job was already done, and now you fly in like a big hero and expect us to thank you?_

He doesn’t say anything. He might be reckless, but he doesn’t have a death wish.

Then the wall is crumbling, hunks of ice and crystallized magic like sheets of red gelatin shattering and scattering to glittering shards. A moment later the Wall is gone, and the gods are gone, and there's only Luna, smiling sadly at Noctis.

“Luna,” Noct says heavily. “Thank you.”

She gives a funny little half-bow, making Prompto wonder if skintight dresses are still constricting even in the astral plane.

“The fate of our star rests with you now,” she says softly. “My king.”

Then she’s reaching for Noct, and he’s reaching for her, and for a deeply disorienting, _profoundly conflicting_ moment, Prompto thinks that they’re going to fall into each other, just like they were always supposed to do — and then she’s gone, and Noct is left clutching empty air.

 _She left you behind_ , Prompto doesn’t say. _I would never leave you. I wouldn’t let some stupid destiny come between us. I’d break it in my hands and make a better one. I'd burn every prophecy to ash before I let the gods divide us._

But that’s stupid, and it’s also unfair, since Luna died protecting Noct. And it’s not like he’s got any way to know if it’s even _true_. Prompto’s never been important. He never had a destiny. He’s always had a choice, and he’s always chosen Noct.

Noct lets out a shuddering sigh. Prompto’s hands twitch, desperate to reach out. He thrusts them in his pockets instead. It’s hard to compete with the Oracle. It’s even harder to compete with a ghost.

Gladio breaks the silence first.

“Talk about divine intervention,” he mutters. Prompto huffs a nervous laugh.

“About time those guys pick up some of the slack,” he says, a little shrill, a little off-key. “Least they could do.”

“They’ve entrusted the future to you, Noct,” Iggy says. Noct doesn’t say anything, which probably means he needs another minute. Prompto steps in.

“Oh, we’ll take it,” he snorts. “And it’s gonna be a lot brighter than they had in mind.”

Noct shoots a grateful look over his shoulder, and Prompto feels relief wash over every inch of him.

###

Of course, it _still_ can’t be that easy. They have to go and fight a god. The Infernian is flame incarnate, like the molten core of the earth crawled out onto land and assembled itself into the approximate shape of a person. Still, they’ve fought bigger. Frankly, he’s a whole lot less scary than Leviathan, so when Bahamut comes sweeping in — _again_ — to “save the day” in a way that really only serves to piss Ifrit off, Prompto can honestly say that he could take him or leave him.

They get through it somehow, all four of them taking turns yanking the others clear of an oncoming blow and breaking potions over each other’s wounds. Soon enough they’re all staggering into the palace, leaning on each other and patting out the embers on their still-smoking fatigues.

The Citadel is a graveyard. Nothing moves. No one stirs. It would almost be better if it were crawling with daemons — at least there would be something to stab — but it isn’t. It’s immaculate and utterly empty, like a movie set after the crew have gone home. It looks like it’s been frozen in time for six years. In essence, it _has_.

Prompto can feel how bad it’s messing Noct up.

It’s not like the Citadel was ever Noct’s, not really — it was always too big and too empty, more like a museum than a home. Noct moved out when he started high school and he never looked back. Still, he grew up here. The Citadel is where he came for his weekly appointments with Regis; it’s where he met Iggy and Gladio, and where he learned to use a sword. Prompto never saw much of the place — he didn’t have clearance, and frankly he didn’t want it. He’d much rather hang at Noct’s apartment, where Noct was actually comfortable in his skin and never had to put on his Prince Voice. To Prompto, it’s just a palace. But to Noct, for a time, at least, it was home.

When he sees Noct hesitating by the threshold, Prompto reaches tentatively for his elbow — the first time he’s touched him since their encounter with Luna. When Noct doesn’t pull away, he slides his hand down Noct’s forearm and slips it into his hand.

“We’ll take it back,” he says. “That’s why we’re here.”

Noct nods, gathering resolve.

“Right.”

###

The Citadel is a nightmare. It’s no surprise: Ardyn’s had six years to convert it into his own private playroom. Somehow he managed to weaponize the dead kings against them, and _wow_ , the dead kings are a _lot_ stronger than Prompto would have thought. But there’s four of them, and luckily, the kings are polite enough to take them on one at a time.

The Fierce is no trouble. The Rogue is trickier, but if Prompto’s quick enough to dazzle a _ceourl_ with a crackshot, he’s pretty sure he can handle some dead lady. The Mystic nearly gives them a run for their money, but Iggy pulls out all the stops and they struggle through somehow.

And then they’re outside the throne room, a little worse for the wear but alive in spite of it. They have no idea what to expect inside. For all they know, the other ten dead kings are waiting for them, and the whole one-at-a-time thing was a ruse to catch them off guard. But what choice do they have? The world needs the sun.

“Wait,” Noct says, turning toward them. “Prompto.”

“Yeah buddy?”

Noct kicks at the floor. “Can I… have one of your pictures?” he says quietly. “To take with me?”

Prompto’s forehead furrows.

“What do you mean, dude?” he asks. “You’re gonna have the real deal.”

Noct grimaces, and Prompto realizes that he may have been planning a bait and switch this whole time.

“Are you serious?” he demands, pissed off. “You still wanna go it alone?”

“It’s not like I _want_ —”

“Well, then, _no_ ,” he snaps, crossing his arms pettily. “You can’t have a picture. It’s me or nothing.”

“Agreed,” Gladio grunts. “Quit being a martyr, kid. This is happening.”

“I’m literally — I literally _am_ a martyr, though,” Noct argues. “I’m supposed to—”

“We know,” Ignis says gently. “Yet regardless of whether or not you must die to usher in the dawn, you will not do it alone.”

“You guys are being so dumb,” Noct sighs.

“Yeah, and you still love us,” Prompto points out. “Pretty embarrassing for you, huh?”

“I guess so,” Noct snorts, shoving a hand in his face. “Dumbass. _Fine_. But if I end up dying alone anyway and I don’t even have a picture to remember you by, you’re gonna feel really stupid.”

“Yeah, _stupid_ is the way to describe how I’ll feel,” Prompto says flatly. “ _What a foolish miscalculation_ , I’ll say. _Ah well. Better luck next time_.”

Noct rolls his eyes and pulls him in by the collar, eliciting a wolf whistle from Gladio and a weary sigh from Ignis. Then with one hand still tangled in Prompto’s collar, he takes a breath, lets it out, and shoves open the door.

###

It’s bad in there.

Corpses hang from the ceiling, bound in black chains and sagging like old meat. Prompto can't see their faces, but he doesn't have to. Who else would Ardyn drag across the world for his grotesque home gallery? Luna. Regis. The Kingsglaive. Noct's family, his _real_ family, are strung about the room like paper lanterns. Prompto retches and swallows bile, slick and bitter.

“Hello, nephew,” Ardyn purrs. “I’m afraid this seat is taken. The throne only seats one.”

Then he opens his palm. There’s a flare of purple smoke, and then — nothing.

Darkness washes over them.

Prompto falls into it.

###

" _Noct_ ," he gasps, jolting up onto his elbows.

“Yeah, buddy?” A low voice, steady and wry, one he knows better than his own.

Prompto feels a hundred pounds lighter. Relief turns his blood to champagne, makes his thoughts feel fizzy and light. There’s something warm and uneven under his head — someone’s leg.

“Noct,” he mews giddily, turning his face to nuzzle into Noct’s belly. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” Noct says, sounding pained this time. “Still here.”

Prompto opens his eyes. He’s on his back in the throne room, head resting in Noct’s lap. To his left, he can see Iggy and Gladio starting to stir.

“And Ardyn?” Iggy asks, a little dizzily. “How fares the Chancellor?”

“Dead,” Noct says dully. “Or dead-ish. I think he’ll stick around until Providence, and then hopefully he’ll scatter for good.”

 _Providence_ … Prompto’s heart sinks.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. Noct looks at him, surprised.

“For what?”

“For not going without us,” he says. “For not — doing it while we were asleep.”

Noct smiles sadly.

“I tried to, you know,” he admits. “I knew you’d never let me go alone, so I thought — maybe I could still protect you, all of you, if I just went in alone. You’d wake up to the sunrise. I sat on the throne and everything, but… I guess I’m still too selfish,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go without saying goodbye.”

“Well, _good_!” Prompto says fiercely. “Cause you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here. Remember?”

Noct heaves a sigh, still wearing that horrible, resigned smile.

“Right,” he says, but the lie is transparent as glass. “Sure. That’ll be great.”

Prompto glares at him.

“ _Noct_ —”

“Fortunately,” Iggy cuts in crisply. “We do not need him to believe us. We only need him to humor us. Now if we’re all ready, I believe that it is long past time to see the sun.”

“Right,” Noct says again, his sad smile turning steely. He huffs out another long, slow breath. “Guys,” he says. “All of you — everything I had, everything good about my life — it was all because of you. I don’t have any regre—”

“Stop it!” Prompto snaps. Noct startles, shooting him a disoriented stare.

“Stop what?”

“Stop — saying goodbye! I _told_ you, you’re not leaving!”

Noct’s mouth twitches. And then to Prompto’s surprise, he actually smirks.

“Damn,” Noct snickers. “When you say it like that, I almost believe you.”

“You got the Phoenix ready?” Gladio asks Iggy.

“Only about six dozen of them,” Iggy admits. “Mega-Potions, too. We’ll need to operate on the go, as it happens.”

“Right,” Gladio says confidently, cracking his knuckles with a sound like popping popcorn that, in spite of everything else, still manages to make Prompto cringe. “Then let’s do this.”

###

“I love you, you know,” Prompto says firmly, as Noct seats himself on the throne. “I’m not telling you because you’re leaving. I just thought you might like to know.”

“You know, I really do,” Noct tells him fondly, brushing Prompto’s cheek with his knuckles. “I love you too, you completely impossible, relentlessly stubborn dipshit. That goes for you clowns too,” he adds, tossing a careless look at the others. Gladio gives him a shit-eating grin.

“You love us, or you think we’re stubborn dipshits?”

“ _Both_ , obviously,” Noct sighs. “Smartass. You guys really are with me, huh?”

“Always,” Iggy swears.

“To the end,” Gladio agrees. Prompto nods his agreement, digging his fingers into Noct’s shoulder and willing himself not to cry.

“Ever at your side.”

###

Prompto has seen a lot of terrible things.

He’s held his own liver in his hands, blood-slick fingers grappling with intestines soft as jelly as a ceourl sunk its muzzle into the raw meat of his gut. He watched Noct struggle and weep as a crystal devoured him, steadily erasing the only man he’d ever love. He’s seen his best friend buckle under the force of divinity; seen him bloodied and broken and empty of hope.

Providence is worse.

“Kings of Lucis,” Noct shouts, with terrible resolve. “Come to me!”

And the air glitters and hums with phantom forms, armed and armored and to Prompto’s distinct amusement, visibly taken aback by the sight of three bloodied, battered attendants clinging to the Chosen King.

Prompto is perched awkwardly on the arm of the throne, gripping Noct’s shoulder with crushing force. Iggy and Gladio stand to his right, the former clutching Noct’s elbow and the latter with one massive hand folded over Iggy’s white-knuckled fist, clamping it to the spot. Prompto clutches his fistful of curatives — Iggy figured it’d be smart to spread them out, so that the others can take up the cause if one of them dies instantly — and very bravely trembles at the Kings of Lucis, shaking all over like a frightened dog.

The dead kings are helmed and armored, their faces shrouded by sheets of spectral steel. Still, somehow, they manage to give off the impression of confusion.

Noct huffs a breath out his nose and actually grins.

Tell me about it," the King of Kings snorts. "Look, I said the same thing. There's no reasoning with them. Just pretend they’re not here.”

The Mystic rises first; Prompto recognizes him from their fight. Without sparing a glance for the quaking attendants clinging desperately to Noctis, the First King raises his sword and charges, not just toward Noct but _through_ him, running him through with a spectral blade.

It's like being burned alive. Prompto screams; he can't help it, like the gods themselves wrenched the sound out of him. He feels like they wrenched his whole _spine_ out with it. He can feel his skin burning black where it clings to Noct, can smell cooking meat, revoltingly savory, but he doesn't let go. He’ll _never_ let go.

“Keep going,” he can hear Iggy gasp, and then he can hear shattering glass and mentholated cool washes over his palms; Iggy must have used a potion. “Do not falter.”

“I won’t,” Noct vows, his voice steely. “I learned from the best. Come!”

A winged phantom rises, and bows, and runs him through, and the cold-burning flame of divine light sets Prompto’s world aflame again. And again. And again.

He’s distantly aware of a rush of sensation, blinding pain and searing cold, crackling heat and tingling numbness, _pain_ and (static) and _agony_ and (nothing). Prompto is skinned alive and doused in acid; he can feel his skin crack and peel and scab and reform before it’s flayed loose again. Fire burns in this throat like he’s swallowed a still-burning ember, like he’s swallowed a _hundred_ embers; like all there is behind his wilting skin is blazing heat and ash. Sometimes he can hear shattering glass and sometimes he can only feel the thud of his own heart, a lopsided rhythm tapped out by a blind-drunk drummer, and sometimes he can hear screams, and sometimes he can hear nothing at all. But he never loosens his hold, and when he can feel his fingers he remembers to break an Elixir over — whatever-it-is that’s around him, Noctis or Ignis or Gladio or himself, maybe, it’s impossible to tell.

And now someone is talking, somewhere, in a voice that sets every neuron in his overclocked mind alight with light and hope.

“Dad,” his favorite voice says, low and certain. “Trust in me.”

For a moment, nothing changes.

Then pain sets fire to his world, and the warmth against his palm goes cold.

“N—rhhgh,” Prompto slurs, trying to blink the fog from his eyes except that he’s increasingly certain that his eyelids have been burned off. “Nn— _nrrh_ , _hh_ , _hhnn_ oct.”

“I’m on it,” Iggy snaps, somehow, miraculously cogent. There’s another wash of that pearlescent cool and Prompto can see again, sort of, light and shadow at least and the broad shape of things — which means he can also see Noct sagging in his arms, limp and lifeless. The Ring on his finger is sparking and flaring, burning brighter than the sun ever did, charring Noct’s arm to so much blackened meat.

Iggy breaks Elixir after Elixir over him and Phoenix after Phoenix but Noct isn't moving, isn't twitching, isn't responding, like he's somewhere else entirely, like there's no one in his body at all but that's _impossible_ because Noct can't die, he can't, he _can't_ , because Prompto can't lose him again.

“Noct,” he croaks, pulling at Noct’s arm, “ _Noct_ —”

And suddenly the Ring shatters in a flare of blinding light, blasting all three of them off their feet and sending them skittering over the steps. Prompto is already surging back toward the throne but his legs aren’t working so he drags himself up the steps on his hands and knees.

“It’s killing him!” he screeches, breathless.

“Stand back,” Gladio rumbles, from close behind, and swings his blade in a glittering arc of silver-and-blue,. His sword cleaves cleanly through Noct’s shoulder, all the way through to the armpit.

A blackened arm thuds to the ground and bursts into a cloud of choking ash. Prompto can’t feel much, but he’s pretty sure there’s something smooth in his hands, like glass, maybe. He drags himself forward, vision fading, color draining, clarity bleeding away. He can’t see Noct but he can _feel_ him, could feel him anywhere and he’ll always, _always_ follow him. He drags himself toward the throbbing heat at the heart of the room and flings himself at Noct’s chest.

He cannot hear the glass shatter. He cannot hear his heart. He has nothing left, and nothing more to give.

Prompto staggers, sways, stumbles, and the world falls away.

###

Prompto dreams that he’s in space. He’s awash in stardust, floating through black void and glittering white.

He’s not alone. He smiles at Noct, warm and loving.

“Did we do it?” he asks hopefully. Noct grins at him, looking bone-tired and satisfied.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s over.”

Prompto cocks his head, surprised.

“It’s not over, dude,” he says, reaching out, and catches Noct by the wrist. “This was never supposed to be the end. It’s still only the beginning.”

###

Prompto jolts awake. He’s folded over something warm, limbs hanging loose like wet laundry.

“Noct,” he gasps, not for the first time today. The warm thing stirs.

“Yeah, buddy?”

Prompto thrashes so wildly that he falls off his perch, landing on smooth stone with a resounding thud.

“Noct??” he says frantically, blinking the fog from his vision. Something warm alights on his shoulder.

“Apparently,” the voice says drily. “Trust me, no one’s more surprised than me.”

“ _Noct_??” Prompto yelps, lines beginning to take shape in his vision. It doesn’t — look right, somehow. Washed out, like he stared into the sun for too long.

A warm hand closes around Prompto’s bicep and yanks him up.

“Do you feel like we do this too often?” Noct asks wryly, from maybe an inch from his nose. “I kinda feel like we do this too often.”

“Not often _enough_!” Prompto tells him giddily, falling into his lap, and presses his face against Noct’s. “Is this real?” he asks hopefully.

“I believe that it is,” a new voice cuts in. It’s Ignis, crumpled in a heap halfway up the stairs.

“Would you look at that,” a low voice rumbles. Prompto looks up to find Gladio, _alive_ , blood fountaining from his sword arm, which ends abruptly at the wrist.

And when he follows Gladio’s gaze to the high, narrow windows behind the throne, he can see daylight pouring in, clear and bright as freshly fallen snow.

###

No one walks away unscathed.

Gladio loses his sword hand. He’s dextrous enough with his left, but you can’t wield a greatsword one-handed.

Color never seeps back into Prompto’s world. He’ll live out his days in black and white, doomed never to know whether or not his shirt and his pants clash fashionably or hideously.

Ignis, hilariously, only loses his sense of taste. Maybe the gods took pity on him after taking his sight; or maybe it was an act of pure spite, stealing the last simple pleasure that Iggy had left.

Noct’s magic is gone. So is his right arm. His right leg is left stiff as a board, the bones fused together like someone filled his skin with concrete. He can’t even walk out of the room, so Gladio has to carry him, folded over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

Probably they should stick around, rebuild Lucis. It’s what everyone wants, probably.

Prompto doesn’t care what everyone wants. He doesn’t care what _anyone_ wants, except for Noct. He’ll always, always care what Noct wants. For ten years, Noct wasn’t allowed to want anything at all. He’s long overdue.

They don’t wait around for anyone to find them — don’t wait for Cor to show up and give them a new assignment, or for the Insomnians to filter back into the city. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, King Noctis Lucis Caelum is dead. They already got what they wanted, anyway. Noct doesn’t owe them a damn thing.

Instead they stop by Hammerhead to pick up Prince, who’s eaten literally _all_ of the two weeks of food that Prompto left out and is now as round as a watermelon, to Noct’s delight. Then they gun it for the coast.

The Royal Vessel is right where they left it, somehow still gleaming and untouched even though the lighthouse has fallen to rubble and the safehouse has rotted away. It’s like it was waiting for them.

###

Prompto can only vaguely remember how it felt to watch the sun set over the ocean. It was an orgy of color, once: blazing orange and lurid violet and blue the same shade as Noct’s eyes. Now, the sky is grey. Noct’s eyes are grey. The world will always be grey.

Prompto got off easy, he knows. He isn’t sure why. Out of all of them, he’s the one who railed against the gods. He should have lost his tongue, or his eyes, or his mind. Instead he lost light and color, and won his best friend. He’d make the same trade a hundred times over.

“Do you have any idea what you’re wearing?” an amused voice asks from behind him. Noct is wheeling up in the chair Cindy custom-built for him: four huge bike tires wired to a single trigger, so that he can steer freely with the arm he has left.

“Nope!” Prompto says cheerfully, reaching for him without looking back and grabbing at empty air until his fingers close around Noct’s knee. “Something extremely cool, I assume?”

“The shirt is _yellow_ ,” Noct informs him, sounding pained. “And the shorts are orange. It hurts to look at you.”

“Guess you’ll just have to look away, huh?”

“Not a chance,” Noct growls into his ear, and bites him on the shoulder, making him yelp.

“Help!” Prompto shrieks. “I’m being attacked— _pfwffw_ ,” is as far as he gets before Noct shoves a hand into his mouth.

Iggy pops his head above deck.

“Is Prompto all right?” he asks.

“He’s fine,” Noct assures him, over Prompto’s sputtering. “Other than being a fashion disaster.”

“Well, if that’s all,” Iggy sighs, and vanishes below deck.

“ _Hwwpffw_ — _pfft_ ,” Prompto spits, as Noct grudgingly lets him up. “I’m a fashion disaster for _you_ , you know. I gave up color for _love_ ,” he adds, batting his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, cause you had such a subtle, understated eye before.”

“ _Noct!_ ” he shrills. “You have to be nice to me!!”

"I don't _have_ to do anything," Noct says loftily. "You taught me that."

“Guess I ruined a perfectly good prince, huh?” Prompto asks, beaming.

“Guess so,” Noct says huskily, close against his ear. “But you saved a sorta okay person, so I figure we can call it even.”

The sun slides behind the horizon in what must be, for Noct and Iggy and Gladio and the whole rest of the world, a breathtaking burst of color and light. For Prompto, the ash-grey sky darkens and deepens to charcoal. It’s the same rich, dusky charcoal as Noct’s eyes.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think that’s a wrap, yall! i’ve still got one more little bonus chapter in the pipeline, but it’s more of an easter egg than a full-on update. 
> 
> seriously, thank you guys for coming on this ride with me! i have put myself through the wringer but i had the time of my friggin life. i hope it's been satisfying for you too. 
> 
> shoutout to Nunca in the comments for lighting my world on fire by dropping the phrase “resignation disguised as duty” into my sparking, overclocked brain — i think it made a significant impact on the shape of this chapter. (followup shoutout to literally all commenters, i owe u my life)


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